Emerald eyes gaze over dented metal painted a faded ruby red; the shell that coats my broken down 1967 Ford. The pathetic sight of this deformed vehicle invokes the frustrated sighs of self pity. Jean-clad ass cheeks slide into an off-white leather seat. My inner universe descends into a twilight trance. Frayed tires roam intumescing ferroconcrete, unfolded infinitely along the gangdoms of Los Angeles. My tongue besmeared scorched, vodka flavored lips, while uttering vulgar complaints in a spout of california road rage. Thoughts effuse in a super-sonic flux, focused on how I'm gonna pay back my Korean peddler for all those opiate influenced nights that were mulcted onto my tab. Inflamed eyeballs glare through my begrimed windshield to discover scores of abandoned hondas, wagons, and S.U.V's. Damned yuppies appreciate nothing. Their compact, jap-made tin cans are conveniently designed to fit in the sardine slots of sun-baked parking lots. Rarely do I ever find a goddamn polished, achromatic double bed for my over the hill pollution machine.