Scribble: Why I don't write after driving late at night.

      Driving. Eyes losing focus. Headlights covered in salty spray, the offal of plows. A thousand blinking, blurring lights from inside. Static, never sated, always famished, omnipresent; the gaping maw of oblivion given voice.
      A deer pausing, eyes aglow, heart beating too fast. Bullet dodged by hesitation. Unnoticed; deer wears a mailbox costume, just as still, just as still.
      Images flash, dreams of a mind eager for slumber. Bare breasts of some awaiting lover. Water sliding past parched lips. Trees reaching for a sun-stained sky. Dark. Blurred headlights. A jolt; mailbox dressed as a deer, just as still, just as still.
      Eyes losing focus. Speed dropping, a speedometer's arm growing too tired. Laughter in a lover's embrace. Easing on the brake, too fast, too hard. Stop with a jolt. Pause. A flaming wreck, five miles from here, a severed limb. Open door.
      The cool night air fills the lungs. The excitement of having made it back draws sleepy eyelids back into the sockets.
      Oh sure. Now I'm awake.