Dear shiny-fast-monstrous-whatever-you- are. I see you, larger as you approach, filling the horizon, shadows across clouds as that bigass steamroller out front with the long spikes chomping up the earth in oily plumes—my direction—post-apocalyptic farm tool. I want to thank you in advance for the oblivion, and coloring everything so sexy. Especially me, after several ___________ [insert vice], all-the-more attractive and witty and somehow interesting, including my love of ___________ [insert hobby]. (So much I'll slur my strung-together words.)
What's that you're screaming? (Is that a tug whistle or a foghorn? It's echoing off the canyon walls, boulders are shifting their positions.) "I'm going to die?" Yes? Yes. Some floating dab of plaque, or bubble of air, at the wrong intersection, the heart seizes–a robin trapped in the chimney flue—some river is blocked or bursts. Yes, right, and sooner rather than later, yes. Come on ahead then you fuck.