So you sit, in darkness and dust upon tattered leather, long of shadow in front of forever, drunk and feeling like the god of nowhere. Such a shining tether, a brilliant wherefore, the liquidity of light upon which I swear my life is other than death though it feels close. For all the miles, everything I've known, there's a certain truth that waits at the end of the road, long as it was. 
Sleek like a bullet, cold as a snowflake, day and night spinning into nothing. It's like haunting a parking lot, watching people come and go through the windshield. Time is a susurrus, a cart full of bags, the mundanity of a smile or a frown witnessed anonymous as groceries are wheeled in their metal cages to trunks and back seats. Crows search for scraps, the sun shines, and I-
Not hung over exactly, that doesn't happen anymore, it's just a haze, a sort of slow time state. You're on the outside, looking in. There's this frightening and dark metallic framework underneath what people are doing, desire, seek.
Ones and zeroes, they say. The space between absolutes is something I don't yet know how to reconcile.