vineri, 15 august 2008

Highway Blues

The next stop, that, it was there, lying ahead, no wonder, it could be the final one, the unavoidable trap, where the unexperienced could vanish or, worse, get crushed by all the others, fitter for that, well-equipped. Motorcyclists were not enough for the broad, straight and soft highway, rising in front, JFC (stands for: Just for Cars), high-class, leading to somewhere indefinite. Cars, on the other hand, no matter how sick and tired they were, had fulltime access to it, may they drivers have been for the long run, or novices, that didn't knew how to save the space given to them.
He, uncrowned king of the road, his jean jacket-second skin, never to be on that dream track, had both curse and fatal odds to fight now. On his Harley, knight without armor, still, on a horse made of steel, he was ready (or maybe he wanted to make sure he was, even if he couldn't have ever been more insecure). A roar of his engine blasted his turn-back thoughts, finally, no other noise than the one made by the cars protruded his ears.
Wrapped in smoke, he was ahead of all; blues in his ears, blue sky above, in the end, a loud crash, then complete blackout. Over and over, a sound of blues...

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