Angus Carmichael

RAPID FIRE, BANG! AND IT’S OVER. SLAMMING ON THE BRAKES AND JARRING TO A HALT…! GRAVITY FINALLY WINS AND I’M HORIZONTAL.
STUCK BETWEEN TWO PLACES LIKE A SALAD SANDWICH.
THERE’S NEVER ANY WIND HERE, NO ZEPHER, ZIP - NOTHING!
JUST THAT SWELLING FEELING STAGNATION BRINGS.
CIGARETTE BREAK AT THE GAS STATION.
I LOVE MY NEW (LEATHER) TWO-PIECE.
THE SWEET SMELL OF GREASY MEAT SEDUCES ME FROM MY FROZEN FEET.
IT’S THE FROSTBITE THAT BURNS, NOT THE FLAMES THEMSELVES.
I’M HAUNTED…, NO, NO. I’M HAUNT-ING!
MY ENTRAILS PERMEATE LIKE RIBBONS OF SEXY SMOKE.
ACTUALLY, I TAKE THAT BACK, IT’S MORE LIKE A THICK FOG.
YEAH, THE KIND YOU SEE CIRCLING TOM WAITS ON STAGE AS HE BLASTS THROUGH A FIFTY PACK, SLAMMIN’ THE IVOVY WITH CONVICTION AND GRACE!

SO IF I DIDN’T ARRIVE, THEN I CAN’T REALLY ESCAPE.
SOMETHING TELLS ME THAT I WON’T DISSOLVE THIS SPACE.