If I were the Queen of the World, I’d ban nostalgia-induced ennui.
How many bad decisions have been made because of that initially dull, then vaseline-glossy feeling? In looking in rear view mirrors with rain beating down the windshield and the wipers swishing out a maudlin, remembrance beat? How many cars have made U Turns and drove back to dark motels; Driver gets out, Driver walks up to door, knocks on door, rain drips off of Driver’s hair onto tired black t-shirt.
The Driver’s Someone opens the door, probably dressed unfortunately in peach or beige nylon, Driver grabs the Someone by the nape of her pale and beauty marked neck and kisses her deeply, tasting menthols and Little Debbie snack cake (probably Zebra Cake, but I’m not sure). All is forgiven, rusty-busted wheels broken but moving along again, for a while at least. The levelness is gone, at least. There was an up-tick in the seismograph. Hum, hum, then boom, then hum, hum…
The Driver will turn his car away again in about a week. Lather, rinse, repeat.