Witness the hearse driver, bright carachters, blocked by the burgeoning sable seasons. Busy love-making the she-car while wishing for the rest of this hemi-life, this 50/50 mixture that no longer works and is corroding the free flowing core. Watch the mercury rise. The full wide open throttle position will never be seen . Escape, the out of reach need, repressed by systematic crossfire, a voyager on someone elses' trip. Red and blue lights of the ambulance will never flash for her. Nor for the hearse driver.