Rolling down some back-road cloaked in the bliss of anonymity, one arm in contact with the wheel at the point that encourages my wrist to flop carefree at the end of it, head bobbling to a slow rhythmic beat that doesn’t match my rousing vocal accompaniment to Life is a Highway that’s cranked up so loud it’s oozing from the Yukon like displaced mortar, I come across this.
THIS is temptation. THIS signifies a certain head toss to the grinding pressure of today’s world, a ballsy show of throwing caution to the wind. If you look at it with just the right tilt of your head, you’ll get the same glint in your eyes. Selling everything I own would enable the purchase of a few acres in any number of states, on which I could move or build a small house, delivering my bobbling head into town once a week for provisions in THIS.
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