You're listening to this song as you're driving down Ventura valley in a red hot 67' next to a blonde girl with sunset eyes now shadows from the lack of light. The lack of steadiness. It's ninety-eight miles an hour. No, it's more. Beauty has not yet scattered. The verse rises and assumes its role, predominant—drowning out the wind from the red California sea, tainted by the sun's crimson glare. She's domineering, what's her name? No, listen to the car again. She's speaking horsepower at the verse of speed. The road ends at the cliff, yet my eyes are locked in the bright signs with arrows pointing south.
About to reach the curve's edge, I turn left at the last second. Tires screech, a sense of burnt rubber and sawed off street reach my nostrils. Everything is different. My hand grasps my lover's left.
The storm is about to begin.