The car doors are about to fly off,
and the back window is gone,
but we don't care--

our own specialized storm team,
parked precariously on top of this flower dusted hill,
sunburnt and wind bitten,

we keep clicking,

on and on until the sun is dead or
the car explodes or
we run out of Earth to consume.

Follow me to the edge and
we'll fly against the sting of our faces and souls.