Motorcycle Race

Motorcycles! Racing! To the stop light, ziirrrrrrrrr-put. Rumble. Rumble. Rumblezoooom! Quick! Let's get on the highway and zip through the rush hour traffic!

Zip! There's a lady texting on her phone, “STK IN TRAFFIC!” Ziirrrp! There's a man taking off his clothes! Zip! Past a teenager, barely sixteen years old. Boo!

They're all bobbing along with the current state of their lives—stuck in their expensive mechanical bubbles, breathing their own air.

Traffic is tight—bumper to bumper—but we are zip ziirrp zooming right through it. Flying by the daily grind of everyone minding their own business. Who needs them? Leave them be! They aren't going anywhere, you can guarantee! They'll all be right there tomorrow! Right where we left them. Zip!

Let's escape! Let's race up the mountain and I'll show you a place where you can live without money and eat like a king! We'll have a feast!


Through the trees! Watch the branches! Watch your face!


Don't worry. We don't need those motorcycles anymore. We're almost there. You can smell it! Just follow your nose, if it's not broken. Something's cooking! Over there! Through the forest, you can see there's a light—a fire glowing inside a cabin!

That's the place! Let's go inside!

Welcome! This is where I live sometimes. Go ahead and have a seat next to the fire while I go to the kitchen and get us some coffee, then we can sit for a while and talk about our futures—together imagining a place that doesn't exist.

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