G Wagon

The night smells of gasoline and cheap whiskey again. Headlights cut through the silence, and the bass booms somewhere inside my chest, like a second heart. When life resembles an endless auction - whoever bids the most gets to live - all that's left is to bang your fist on the table and take what's yours. There's no room for philosophy here: you just drive as long as you have gas and faith that a new life awaits you somewhere past the next intersection.

And it seems like it's the same neighborhood, the same faces, only the scars have gotten deeper and the cars more expensive. Instead of the romance of the streets, there's the scent of Jackie and snow that isn't always snow. The only thing that warms you is the feeling that no one can catch up with you now. Not the police, not the past, not your own mistakes left somewhere between the club and the court.