Brake lights

The back attaches itself to the car seat, in anguish and boredom. It’s fine. It has resigned itself to the boring wind through  the pockmarked roads of my city. The arm extends, just as tense as it is bored to the steering wheel, fingers gripping the steering in a mix of lethargy and urgency. The kind of urgency boiling water has as soon as it reaches the boiling point. The kind of urgency, that will die out in vapours of resignation. 
And the eyes restless and vaguely registering everything, flick about, returning to the red light. Bathed in the brake lights red wash, that pours through windows and windshield, a temporary life breeds in the red concoction. A life which suspends itself on the impatient, yet resigned wait of a hundred tired eyes. A life which is red, has the temperament of the faintest mist and the personality of a weakly plotted murder scene from a B grade novel. The eyes flick back to the signal and the brake lights, emit their last fierce roar and the signal clears. The red vanishes like a lunatic’s days of lucidity. 

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