Narcoleptic truck drivers running down the same road everywhere they go. It never changes, the same colour, the same stops and the same hours.

It’s a mean joke by the authors, you’d think men would have better things to pray for, but the prayers heard are in praise of and in want for a crueler mistress- insomnia. Eyes betraying a dangerous tendency and in toil also comes enough comfort for the stealthy thief to lay a man down at the wheel.

Streetlights go on and off, the roads cut by farmland and crawl through cities, warm dusty haze layering progress. Hold up your shoulders because they want to melt into the seat, your head lolling in a cabin crib.

The roads wouldn’t dare change, turning in the rythm of lullabies incidiously rocking back and forth in calling back bygone memories. A soft dream threatens in its slow grash pulling the hands away from the wheel and letting the axels and turns see to your fate.

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