Gas CanDan Pinkerton
I can’t speak on your behalf, but I feel inflamed. It’s only a newfound movement, as though the limbs have been cut from casts. I know a man who mistakenly set himself on fire while heaving gasoline from a bucket. I never visited him in the hospital—I was too impressionable for that sort of thing. Tree limbs scratch the windows of the bus. It rolls along at a steady clip, down a street lined with houses. Streetlights shine in puddles. I listen to music, for I’ve heard that others do this while riding the bus. In one of the houses lives a boy who will become a musician or actor, someone of minor importance, and he will forget about this street. I’m trying to forget myself, if only we can keep from running out of gas.
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