No destination. All dust on pavement. The crack of a beer. Echoes of a shotgun ringing out to infinity and smashing a glass into pieces. The pull of a throttle and wheels feverishly digging into dirt. Dust in eyes. Whiskey on throat. Wild, wild, wild. Out here, the sun scorches our arms and burns memories of a summer that came and went too fast along our t-shirt line.

An all-out free fall into whatever
lies beyond the feeling of freedom.

We are the mad ones.