Bullshit

	The broken asphalt, lumpy and obscene, rattled the weary suspension and hard metal frame of his square and timid ’94 Buick. A purple, faded water bottle rattled all jumpy and twisty in the cup holder to his right. The ironic fuzzy dice hanging from his rear view mirror leapt back and forth indecisively. Plain, dry, unending, mostly vanilla colored wild grasses and wheats covered the earthen canvas of prairie and faded into a sky blue sky blue.
	Black, dirty tires worn to about mid life cycle spun down the dry Texan road. In the rusted and dusty chassis sat Miles Aubert. His left arm lay extended out of the lowered window, his hand diving and lifting and fluttering chaotically in the 76 degree and 5% humidity breeze that wound around the car. An unusually gentle sun shone down on his arm and body, leaving only the top of the right of his head in the shade of his car; he didn’t mind. Dark hair danced above his lighted face, animated by the same wind as his hand. Alone on the long road, Miles was almost shouting, shouting at no one, shouting for himself, along with the poppy and honest music that echoed out of his other windows across the empty plain.
	Miles wanted to feel proud and excited and powerful. He wanted to feel triumphant. But he was not barreling towards some unknown and exotic place where he would really, finally get pushed to where he needed to be: Miles was driving home.