Throwing the car into fifth shift, I floor the gas. Exhaust piles high out of the pipe, choking the outer walls of my rear tires and cascading around the intricate patterns on the edges of the windows. The pull of gravity throws me back against the seat, and I grip the steering wheel. I wont back out of this. I need to do this, to finish it. Glancing at the speedometer, I shove the car into sixth and place my hand back on the steering wheel.
Lights are dancing outside my window; they blend into each other and mingle, pressing close to the glass and to each other, high as a drug dealer in Bangkok. As I cling to the wheel, the colours spiral out of control. They seep in through the windows and push their way into my heated skin, into my eyes, weaving throughout my hair. I am colour.
The windshield is soon dotted with splashes of violet and lime, copper and fuchsia. Windshield wipers do nothing to eradicate them, and I lean forward. The road is lost in layers of clouds. Street lamps