like a hot-wheel guided by a holy hand above, he makes impossible feats as if the car creates the road, his free hand is just as busy making fanatic gestures to guide scrambled linguistics or it rests out the window seeking a courtship with the wind clasping the door handle, wide-eyed the passenger rides safely adjacent to Fear, but at every turn Momentum carries Fear deep into the heart where its is pumped via veins, icing the body with awe inspiring visions. Visions controlled by the last true American Driver. He drives like only a thief can, poised by paranoia, pure thrill achieved only through the drive, race or getaway.
in a past life, Neal was a great Outlaw outrunning potbelly sheriffs to plump on the saddle to rival the great horsemen of their day heβd chase trains down, taming and taunting them with speed and skill. or perhaps he was a horse himself. a terrific thoroughbred bluegrass fed. tritting trotting his way to a Triple Crown. trainers fed him Benzedrine to gage the beast. they feared he would run through the finish line and straight across the country like a maniacal madman looking for the last true road