someone killed the engine.

your right foot reclines and the gauge on the speedometer wakes up. your aluminum shell coasts down the expressway, past more aluminum shells with more right feet and more gauges. you've got to turn the music up because at the rate your engine is going, it's drowning the sound. you avert your attention to the quarter-sized dial and turn it three-clicks because two isn't enough and four is too much. somewhere in the three you missed that the aluminum shell in front of you has slowed because of a deer, or a traffic jam, or just their right foot got confused and is reclining on the wrong petal. hard. and at this point whether you can hear the 'top eight at eight' doesn't really matter because your aluminum shell that was just coasting at a high of triple-digits has inverted. your chest implodes and the momentum surging through this piece of metal sends the back to the front and your brain rattles off the spinal cord and disconnects from thoughts, and feelings, and emotion. someone killed the engine.