My Face on Your Milk Carton: or, how I might disappear;

It’s a certain season and time of day that leads me to have unwholesome thoughts, and it is my car that gives validation to my impulsivity.  Alone I fall victim to my thoughts, my only company apart the music – and sometimes not even that.  Were it not for practicality doing its best to ground me, I would travel without end and with no destination in mind.

You see, it’s not a consequence of any consideration or planning, but rather an arrow on a brilliant sign set high above a highway on ramp that makes empty promises.

Pick me – pick me!” screams the silent metal, horrendously loud, ringing in my ears.

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