Departing

A lot of string music, for those who walk on wires.  I said I’d found my drug.  Good, she said, everyone needs to find their drug to make art.  I thought about it.  I’d just picked her up from the airport—where the planes fly right over the gated road and distract drivers, conflating and threatening to prove the disproportionate danger between air and ground travel (ironically, a plane is most likely to die while landing)—and I got lost, I was so excited.

I believe it too.  But then again, do they do this death-list per-capita?  Lots of dead people in African, Mexican, Asian, Indian and even American graves may never have entered a plane.  But who does not get to enter a car these days.  It’s especially important to enter a car these days.  

Back on the road to the airport, the car shot like a bee (they're going extinct now, the air traffic’s all messed up).

There’s always less to talk about before a departure.  It’s silly, but it’s time and it’s backwards.  Someone is leaving and we know, for once, how many minutes our mouths have to move, how far our conversations can go while still being completed and what subjects are too big to tackle.  So it’s quiet.  The clock is more important, rushing to an airport, than watching the road.