Do you ever lay awake at night listening to the cars? Engines hum and wheels spin; ca-chunk a truck passes over a bump.
These unseen vehicles pass beneath amber streetlights, trapped in a moment of time like a prehistoric mosquito. Who are the drivers within, faces lit by glowing consoles?
Hands on the wheel, some relaxed, some tense. Some are weary. Some have tears on their cheeks and the radio blasting. Some drive in silence. Some drive alone.
Distant strangers–yet close enough for you to hear–entire lives rolling by on the night roads.
Hands on the wheel, lines on the road reflecting, the drivers pay no heed to the fact you can hear them. Thus they travel through a dream-like soundscape, occupying the half-dreams of the half-asleep and the waking-dreams of the insomniac.
Strangers all, by virtue of their anonymity. One day, you might know them; you might know them already. But it doesn’t matter when they are only a vanishing sound, like the buzz of a mosquito.
Faces lit up by consoles. Speedometer needles twitching. Radios blaring or silent. Air freshener hanging from the rear-vision mirror or the smell of stale smoke ingrained in the seats. One of the drivers puts their foot down on the pedal and they leave it there. The car begins to shake as it increases in speed.
In the distance, a stranger in bed hears the rising vroom and then the car is gone. The driver relaxes off the pedal and the car begins to slow. The road stretches on. The night is unending.
Soon, it is morning.