Or

To begin with, getaway cars are meant to be inconspicuous. Chartreuse or sun orange just won't do. It really doesn't help matters much that the coiffed and gelatin-haired asshole in the SUV beside you means to jump in front of you when the light changes. He believes it is his right to do so. So, speeding along in what is hopefully nothing more than a slate gray mini-sedan, it is no wonder that the narrow alleys remain unseen. Would it even give you pause if you were to know that the key holders stand silently there in the shadows? While pedestrians sidle away from them mistaking them for muggers they are in fact the unknown and unlikely heroes. Soft spoken, kindly-eyed.

And then there's an accident ahead. Detours and roundabouts, blocks over from the start, or from the place where you are needed. In all this mess you miss lunch at that cafe on the corner. The one that sells the chutney, good for the gullet, or for the soul, or to use as a poultice to help fade that cicatrix. Food for thought really isn't all that expensive usually. And the matter isn't completely incomprehensible even if it is described in mutters or textese.

When you run out of fuel what then? Will you stand facing the wall as you did in the past? Remember how you stood there with your face mashed against the cinder blocks? Nose taking turns either relishing the chalky-stony-mortary smell, or being disgusted by it...indecision has a similar aroma. It is humorous to recall how the red dotted mark on your brow confused you. Yes, dearest dumbass. When you squish your face into the wall, your face will get scarred. When you bang your head blood will bloom, and your hair will lay goose eggs.

Water, I need water! Eating my way through this is dusty and throat-scratching work. My sinuses are killing me. My head throbs. Is it worth it to plod unceasingly through this labyrinth when logic sleeps? I have discovered that the true saviors don't dance neon down the middle of the street. They don't flash golden teeth as they punch in your tits and kick you in the groin or knee. They aren't sly or cruel. Or liars. Or fetchingly dressed Barbies and Kens. Or hurtful pretenders. Hell, they ain't Jesus. Just listeners. Just careful ones. Just friends.

This, this, and this. It doesn't matter if it changes names before you get to the end. It is the ending that is important. Yield when it's required. Sing car tunes loudly, or watch them. Pick up hitchhikers? Sometimes? But revving in neutral just wastes that fossil fuel we all just CANNOT live without. hahahaha. Oh fuck-is-me! I hope someone remembers me when I'm in the junkyard or disassembled and used for parts. That is the grand and final destination after all, right?