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Show THE WRECKER DRIVER FORESEES YOUR DEATH I_ don't drive for pleasure anymore If you walked past the lot on any good Sunday, stopped to stare, and jays were flying anyway you turned like blue flowers tossed up to the wind and rolled over, so light they never fell, and the air was fruity with fresh-mown grass, you could never know the horror of it. Looking at the rows of cars wrinkled like wads of paper, windshields webbed with cracks, oil still oozing from the fresher ones hauled in the night before, you still could not believe the pain. You would try to hear them collide, perhaps, and might even convince yourself you could. You might see the black well of night crossed with lights flashing in your mind, or imagine yourself pushing a stuck door to help the dying woman crying for you, holding up her damp stub, the smell of singed hair thick as honeysuckle, and far sweeter. For that moment you would stand there blackhearted, scared of your own mind, |