Your color is black and gold (with white trim); the perfect colour combination as anyone with any sort of intelligence knows. Most lust after women in short skirts, I desire your satin asphalt and smooth curves taken at seventy-five miles per hour.
They say that smell is the sense most tied to memory, but two nights ago those twelve ounces of Wawa coffee (coupled with free literature in the restroom) with hazelnut creamer put these thoughts back to I-70 West (circa 2006). Substitute the Zero for a Six and those fifteen miles at midnight aren't so bad. In fact, they move rather fast and soon another Six is added to the sentence.
Columbus (not Ohio). Almost home.
It's been five seasons since a pass through the 614 has been made. Damn, it's got a pretty skyline, especially in the rearview at the golden hour. Jason Lytle would be proud. He's making music again, you know, but without the Grandaddy moniker.
He was the soundtrack of October Oh-Five as the Volkswagen and I glided across the red Kansas flat-hills; this time at one hundred plus, though it only felt like fifty-five. They say the fines aren't as bad out there. We weren't worried because points don't carry over to Pennsylvania.
You know, there's a Manhattan out here too?
You don't say?