its outside

imagine this, for whatever good it does.

It's the end of a long lane, covered in sharp little stones that make noise with steps.
There's an old farm building there, falling apart, the silo's roof is split (at least a few times) and there are black crows all over it. The noise scatters them, though, and they take off. The rusty metal sighs in a loud, rusty way as they take their weight off and away with wings.

Step up on the runners almost before the wheels stop and hop into the vinyl seat. It's too beaten-down for any whisper of air to puff out on impact. The radio's lit, though.

I need this. Just drive, ok? Just... go. Hands make a throbbing gesture toward skull, slowing and collapsing against temples, making a mess out of curls. Stop the noise.

I only have, looking at the clock or something on the dash.

Doesn't matter, it's better already. Go go go... So that's good. That is air.