(The Passenger)
I want to go for an impossibly long drive today, across a desert, or more.
There is no desert, no car, no scarfed young woman escaping mysterious circumstances, smoking cigarettes and speaking in a French accent, no hotel, no story to tell, no tangled involvement from which to scheme ourselves away. I wish my life to be filmed in black and white.
I will also need an editor.
I had planned on writing another little vignette, one concerning driving across the desert. I have enjoyed the last two mornings, their petites impressions.
Now, I wish to live out a vignette, rather than merely writing one. I wish to stand in an unfamiliar place without a camera, without a reason for being there other than the fact that I am alive and, like most others, wish to be outside of my life for a moment. I wish to be intoxicated with the scent of another life, to rush somewhere, to stand on the verge of it and pause, prepared to leap as if there is no way back, with barely a fleeting way forward.
.
