i drove around needing some fresh air, blasting trance-like visions from boards of canada, tempted to pull into a Wawa or 7-11 to grab some smokes. wind rushed through my open windows, across my face and over my shaved head. i tried not to think about work, but the effort was useless. i glanced to the right and noticed several phone books that looked like it had been run over several times, its ruffled black and yellow pages writhing in the invisible currents that rolled over it. a street sign had been run down, probably one of those yellow and black stripped yield signs, oh you know those signs that are usually on the intersection end of an island. the actual sign was long gone, but its metal neck stood there leaning over crooked and demented like the hunchback of road signs, wanting to be noticed but passed over countless times. detour and alternate signs were everywhere, pointing this way and that, merely suggesting what route to take but effectively directing the flow of traffic nonetheless. people broke the law (including myself), pushing the pedal down harder, slaving their vehicle of choice. work. i needed to get back. but first i’d put air in my back left tire. my tire gauge read less that 20 lbs. fucking every two days – i needed to stop neglecting my loyal beast.