Shroud
It was an odd fog this morning, cresting like a wave in the silence of the night upon the broken shores of Deadman's Hollow. I belong to the sea, he said, his windows rolled down, as if sending an invitation to the pallid blanket over the city. The Road, he thinks, is a narrow strip of suicide, never changing, and gritty. There is no more here than a constant expanse to an endless arrow. The scenery starts looking the same. At least it shares this with the sea, around you is nothing but water and you think you could drown in the constant reflection of salty tide. There is unidirectionality, a oneness of everything. It's a battle of wits to convince yourself that the age you race toward is also what propels you forward, every bump in the road is a new wrinkle... But it pains him to think this as his wheels do all the work. In the ocean, he thinks, he'd put in his miles on his hands. The salt-air burning scars into his face. The sun bea...