You’re in a red Thunderbird cruising through America in slow motion.
Brilliant light ricochets off the hood of the car.
It shreds prairie land and blue sky into pieces.
America is your house. You smooth through it like it’s butter.
You can’t smell anything. You can’t hear anything.
You can’t see anything broken, but there’s yellow tape all over.
More short-form “reviews” of music I’m listening to here.
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Kudos
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Kudos