Drive

I walked out of the dark room in the brilliance of sunny day in Los Angeles. Although it was fall the sunlight betrayed the expectation of grey gloom. Immediately my eyes closed up with only a slight perceptible break between the lids. I wanted to turn around and go back inside and forget the whole idea, but guilt kicked in and I continued.

I turned the ignition and before the car sputtered into life Elliott Smith sang of 'Memory Lane'. For some reason that still baffled me slightly, the radio was always more anxious to wake than the rest of the car. As I drove off the lyrics of the song filtered off and on into my head, and if recorded music didn't have quality of a specter in its disembodied self, a posthumous release of an album only added to the effect.