The sky overhead has crushed all movement. Even at sixty miles per hour he is going nowhere. And he is lost in his head. The horizon is always “out there” and far away, until low clouds roll in and cover you and quietly the world becomes a bowl at the bottom of which you sit. You do not so much contemplate the distance as just the gray of what is near. It is never harmful to ask on such a day, “Why do I bother?” as the sky pulls you under. He is looking at this world covered over until he sees the brilliance of the red brake lights in front of him. Is he okay? He’s stopped! Shit! He grabs the wheel to pull hard right. The rearview mirror: nothing but a truck grill. Fuck! Hold on… Oh God, I love you, Jodie.

Read the whole thread: A Low Cloud Reflex

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