Truth was bent on the road, it drifted on madness.

I was there, on the audience. But where is the audience? Passenger seat?

I played a race on myself, if ever cognition could win over the will.

And it won't, but it will.

And marks left on the street is seemingly in patterns, the tires smelled like history. Is it created?! Or made. Or just mad.

I'm out of mad love. Logging out at each drifts, slowly driving away.
© Giacinta Mitchelia Dharma