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The cigarette smoke courses down my throat. Rough, almost abrasive in it's nature.

The steering wheel is slick from my sweaty palms.

The roar of wind channeling through the open window assaults my eardrums. It drowns out the crackling, sputtering sounds of the AM radio. It's okay. I didn't want to listen to that damn Brilliant anyway.

The sun glints off the rear view mirror of the car ahead. Where could I have put my shades?

It almost seems that there is a malevolence to the rough highway.

The asphalt intersects the concrete at an angle in the fast lane. It attempts to push my spinning wheels off the road the way a canal channels unwanted flood waters.

As I veer off to the junction between the 91 and the 605, the traffic slows. It closes up like the pleats of a contracting accordion.