The old grey sedan barrels down the highway with a cigarette in its mouth.
The old man's suit and five o clock, stare down the road to see the future.
Tall trees whop whop by, like giant pendulums, as far as the eye can see.
It's The Eternal Corridor, Ladys and Gentleman, there's nothing but trees and road, and sky.
The engine wails and the wheels roar, on down the road.
But he's still under the tree, in front of his house. Tree sap and bird droppings litter the car, marking it for purgatory, marking it for all the years down the highway.
His head is static, squealing, clicking, buzzing, and regret is stabbing over and over. White knuckled on the steering wheel, he goes, stoic, barreling down the highway he goes, trying to get home.
And the vents in the dash, blow hot hot winds, in his face and heart, off the engine, and up from the furnaces of hell, in the hot night, in that old car, down the highway, down the eternal corridor.
Staring into a thousand years, but he has no currency here.
Pray for him, my brothers and sisters, that he might have change for the tolls.