Cars (at the NA)

[Read the following slowly, with short-ranging monotonous inflection.]

Sometimes I believe certain people only drink to wash down the narcotics lying on their tongues. Imagine that; pasty, tight bodied women of various color sprawled out across the shores of the bluest beaches, the sand like a thousand sponges with multiple grids shaped like tiny keyholes, and their lifeless gaze directed towards that beaming golden star we all love so well. Their skin brushes against the coarseness of the surface of the sand and they tire of the wait. At last, an enormous swell of fizz and darkness comes forth as they let out great gasps of air. Relieved, they take what will become their last joyous leap down the steep slide and find that they're better to dissolve than to fade away.

Cars hastily pull in and out of the driveway; not unlike an act of vigorous, heavy sex. Curiously, there remain no signs of familiar life. Their operators never leave an impression and they barely have developed faces. They're more or less blurred visions, all one in the same. They're just as mechanical as the vessels they steer towards their perpetuated bliss. I always picture their hands shaky, palms a bit sweaty. They arrive, as they always do, retrieve their beach dwelling casualties and carry on with their daily tasks. At last, another joyous plunge. Go to bed.

How primitive.