Motorcoach careening off a cliff from a desert highway. The hum and grind of engine and gears and grease permeate the auditory landscape of orange / tan powder, dust, and sand (and rocks). And all the driver says his foot on the gas, all the way down so that the pedal is even with the floor, the bus accelerates in such a fashion that the hum of the engine crescendoes with each passing gear, until it is at fever pitch, humming straight on second to the right and well, straight on ’til morning. When the cliff comes and the bus becomes Wylie Coyote momentarily standing on thin air, the noise cuts out. And before the bus falls, there is a groan of metal and parts, as if they know what’s about to happen, a last dying breath on the wind of the damned, exasperated and annoyed, for this is not what they were supposed to be used for. But maybe also tiredness, like how this driver is tired. Skating Peppermint Patty in jacket, hat, and scarf and (mittens). The wreck is loud and fiery.
