(no subject)
The bloated son-of-a-bitch looms before me, his great belly of green-black a Damoclean sword dangling by a few wisps of water vapor as the 300-odd pounds of steel two feet in front of me churns like a psychotic demon to propel me ever faster.
The asphalt river I hurtle down has been given its Stygian mood by that bloated son-of-a-bitch in the sky. His belly almost scrapes the earth, hoarding everything it can into its vast, cavernous belly. The visibility could be described as pitch, though I think that cliche is a bit exotic to most folks. And is a bit too strong here, anyway. Motor oil would be more accurate; Dark as hell, but with slight visibility.
Plus, you can't see shit through pitch. I know thats the point of the simile, but really. When's the last time it was so dark the air turned into a highly viscous liquid? Thats what I thought.
Numerous distractions dot the sides of the road, signs perched atop metal platforms, products designed to look like a Jack Russel fucking Terrier puppy, bouncing up and down, "Buy me! Buy me," as if the store rack they live upon is a cruel master who beats them.
Exit's coming up.