When I leave my body, she is one place that I go. She is driving a car. The car looks like my old Toyota, but it smells like iron or blood instead of stale coffee. We are speeding on a New England highway, in winter, with the windows open.
Streetlights flicker as they pass above us, bringing the same shine to the ice and to the car’s steel. It’s familiar, exhilarating to be free. I see her shiver in thin clothing, but we are indifferent to the body’s concerns.
There is one, holy power of mind – the will. It is our bending trajectory through the night. I am scared. I know we will not slow. I am afraid the night or the cops will take us – they are cold steel and ‘order.’
She turns on the radio, and the volume is an energy without sense. There might be homes on the side of the highway. People sit before their televisions, burrow into dull lives. We don’t care. There are streetlights. We don’t care.
Thrilling, my heart. She is part of my rising spirit, the one that survives, that tramples those other ephemeral lives. Worst of all, she is real, living and feeding and fucking. Delivering tirades to the masses on YouTube, the masses who cannot keep pace. We accelerate.