I just wrote a short story.
It was complete shit so I destroyed it.
I kept thinking about how we drive
down the highway at 95 MPH
and somehow, our fucking brains are able
to process every damn blade of grass,
every car slower than us, every grumpy face
we look at as we pass, and never do we
take time to think about how we’re able
to understand when to apply the brakes
while observing two lines side by side, which
aren’t that, but the number eleven instead.