How many miles left? Can my tires make it, or have they corded out already? Am I driving on rims? Move, please I beg of you, get me there. Take me back where I was when I felt something other than this hollow emptiness that now echoes my marbled halls. You sputter with one last puff of black smoke. I rest my head on the steering wheel, realizing this Rube Goldberg device stopped working long ago. I don't care to lift the hood and diagnosis the issue, finding a remedy for your fluctuation. So I'll just leave you here, with a white t-shirt in the window, but I'm not coming back.