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writing prompt 6

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Apr. 22nd, 2010 | 08:32 am
listening to: Red Sparowes - Mechanical Sounds Cascaded Through the City Walls and Everyone Reveled in Their Ignor

He wants to escape. He lowers his bare feet to cold metal. He sees his cold breath coagulating, hanging stagnant over white knuckles and the dashboard ahead, as his toes curl around the pedal like fingers to a throat in some endearing chokehold.
"Welcome ghosts," he exhales, simultaneously creating and addressing them. "Let's go for a ride somewhere."
He wants to escape. He wants fields like pages of an oversized novel; blades of grass like Helvetica beneath clammed skin; the kind of place that is a time and the kind of time that is a place, where you sink down into letters and mechanics until you're swallowed whole by both everything and nothing at all.
He feels his pulse quicken, the kind of acceleration that kills an engine faster than a gas leak overnight. He wanted to set fire to the old house. He wanted to set fire to the books and fields. Now, now he wants the world inside his stomach, and to set fire to himself. He settles for an internal combustion reaction. The car lurches forward in an impossible race to keep time with the marching soldiers in his heart. We call this a closed system. We call this us versus them. He wants to escape something. He is something, nothing, and everything in motion, a vigorous heartbeat, a thundering engine. He is a projectile with an unidentified trajectory. We call this escaping.

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