Sometimes my thoughts take me so far away that I end up dumbfounded that the cars behind me aren’t all laying on the horn.
“come on you stinkin’ idiot,” I’m sure they’d scream,
and then something quite cliché like,
“where’d you learn to drive.”
because like it or not
clichés are clichés for a reason.
The trouble with brains is that they don’t take the time to decide whether right now is ok to think about what’s on them, they just set to work solving all of the problems no matter what you’re doing, and it’s such a damn mess.
the only solution I have found for a quiet mind is to lose yourself in the soft curve of a dark road, the dense night clinging to the edges of your brights, gripping the steering wheel gripping the road, and skating along black 1 grit sand paper.
Little Spud In The Big Apple 