You Know It's Just A Drive. (Hitch The Buick)

The sad dark summer night unfolded before me in the form of a
curving road heading north at Eleven Thirty P.M.
The new season hit and the moon had hid it's illuminating face
as if it didn't want to watch me wander without meaning.
I'd had a few beers before I had left and brought three more
(pints) for this pointlessness.
It's calming really.
It sets my head straight driving nowhere behind the caring wheel
of the old Buick and the million yellow dash lines have stories.
They know something.
Maybe everything.
Maybe God has just been hidden in front of us all along.
Maybe it's all a bunch of bullshit.
It probably is.
But I follow them and keep the car pulling at Eighty-Seven miles
per hour and light a cigarette. I've music playing but there's
no words. And I like that. I've to many in my head already.
I watch the ember of my cigarette flicker from the draft of the
open window and know there is something mesmerizing about it's
subtlty. I take a drag and help it burn just a little bit more.
I begin to think of time.
As in, how the average cigarette takes approximately eight
minutes to finish. About how, at my favorite bar, I drink a pint
of beer about every fifteen minutes. About how four years ago I
was on some path that would lead me to Hawken St. for nine
months.
About how just two years ago, I moved in with a woman I never
loved and how it only took her six months to blame my drinking
so she could run from her own insecurities.
One year ago I blew a tax return on a record player and bars and
booze and reacquianted with a person with a beautiful soul.
Time.
The Master.