There are spots of wisdom on my windshield that are blurring my vision of the road in front of me. The seats are starting to feel like a zoo, and the sun is shining into my palms when I'm really busy just really trying to steer away from the road taken by the recreational vehicles filled with all of the jokes I don't understand. It seems that there is something soaking into my skin that makes it harder to not smile than it is to not fall asleep when the lectures on the mediocrity of literary genius croon on in the background of my daydreams about the angel from your nightmares.
I'm taking the turn to Budapest because I've always desired to see the way that the nighttime looks on the far side of the upturned chins and the underside of what yesterday desires to become. We aren't going anywhere in particular this time, though. It's one of those feelings that clings to the part of thimbles that doesn't protect your sensitivity, but hugs the sweat that accumulates and makes it so that the needles are less sharp than my wit.
There are legal documents that counteract the wisdom I could be gaining from driving for this long, since they dictate the subterfuge that marks the end of my development and the start of my consumption of gasoline straight. Papers in the back and papers on my lap and papers that cause the paper cuts that color the interior; so many papers and none of them say anything whatsoever other than "I love your laugh" in a thousand different languages.
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