At 100 miles an hour The wind howls in your ears like a scorching twister razing a rainswept path through wilderness something distant and fierce and it's already gone breakneck curving black roads snake past the hills they climb and die on like a glacial river split by gold lines so fast it seems a solid whip beneath the roar of twin engines and chrome speeding through the forest, split as if some unknown gods, dead and past, had carved it themselves and the makers all forgot. you've always been here, and gone, and you always return to call this place home home is where the asphalt is. the smell of pine, and no one else. for miles and miles the emptiness only you and I. Swiftly rushing by.