I'm driving across the rusted railway bridge of my life: A shoddy piece of architecture constructed under the strict supervision of unadulterated eccentricity and some lonely swigs on empty bottles. The bridge's knees buckle with doubt... (Doubt: rancid pollution that corrodes the skeleton of mortality [my mortality].) But still - in this presupposed hazard hope springs from a railing lining the edges, reading "Don't drive off. It's better up here." I like hope. It makes driving shitfaced possible... and falling off the bridge impossible But even with life's caveat, hope bears its own doubt - An indefinite wearying glamour that taxes the richest in spirit: I'm tired of looking for someone. I'm tired of living every moment of every day like it's my bedtime, waiting to drift away but gripping a semblance of reality (with tiny hands). I'm tired of waiting. And still, in her I see the same gentle uneasiness of a life fraught with doubt but fluttering to live. I see the life of a driver. What? Where'd this woman come from? Shut up. Life on the road doesn't make much sense. Images come and go like a merry-go-round infinite, and I simply like dreaming. I'm taxed and I want to dream. Isn't that what hope is? Yeah. A shitfaced, beautiful dream....................................