It's three am, maybe four. And I don't really know where I am. Somewhere between Bristol and London, somewhere off of the M4. Somewhere with bitter coffee. And Styrofoam cups, and this truly is a shit blend.
And through my headphone Bon Iver, The Wolves (Act I and II) is playing. And I'm thinking about the line 'In the morning I'll call you' and I'm thinking, who would I call if I were alone. And I can't think. My eyes are dry and gritty and have been since surgery. And the polished glass of the for-court doesn't help. And my car; Electric blue, hard top, charcoal interior, discreet, but light and powerful enough to push 140 on the empty motorways, sits empty, alone, under the unnaturally bright lights. And I'm thinking we're all alone.
And on the passenger seat, in the glove box, scattered around the foot well, extracted pages of Exit Through the Wound. And it's a story with which I am familiar. A story which I have read, six, seven, eight times now. And there's something soothing about driving at speed and reading from a page, something, uncontrollably relaxing. And I can only remember the first line, the first three words, the lights on my dash. The night.