This flat stretch will do, dusk-black and blurred by speed. Grip loosens, detachment from the vibration of this metal beast — a fraction of the required disconnect. Or is it desired disconnect?
Need more.
Foot goes heavy, pushing acceleration, air lifting beneath.
"Not long now."
Hit the lights as a middle finger to the voice — a wash of yellow brightens the racing blur, like the point-of-view of an insect riding a falling lightbulb, still lit.
"Who's that?" annoys the voice.
Distant, beyond the luminescence, a figure stands in the middle of the flat.
"Well, so much for planned endings."
Copyright (c) 2021 by D.Lasala