Hours ahead of me. Hours behind me. I grip the wheel tightly as if it was the only thing pulling me forward. I think about letting go and letting my car pull away. But there is nothing metaphysical in the steel and glass that wraps me within. If I let go I will just kill myself. The miles count down in decimals on a device that tracks my exact position in this world. Ironically even though I know where I am, I don't know where I am. Roads narrow and widen. Traffic roars into emptiness and then I am stillness. I am within a journey. My track may be linear but the pace is governed by a dice roll, weather and idiots with poor spatial awareness. My day ends long after the sun sets and my day often begins before the sun rises. I am momentum. I am a point between the distance between two points. I am nowhere. I am somewhere.
