I now slow down my steps when i walk by these police stations only so to get a chance to peer into the wreckage that’s left of cars pulled from accidents.
I have learned to admire the destructive art of impacts sending massive cars into shriveled balls of crushed iron.
This art that sends massive cars into death traps, death cans, death containers, death, death, death, written everywhere.
I slow down my steps to stare at deflated bags that hang from the dashboards, dotted with blood and, maybe, tears.
To stare at airbags- blood-stained airbags that are meant to save their lives but the only things they really do save now are stories,
Stories plotted on their dreams- all the ones that got crushed in the wreck, the limbs, the lives- empty blood stained airbags modeling all the emptiness in our own worlds- what they save now, these blood stained airbags;
Are little marks of death, and man’s vulnerability the little marks of blood, little marks, little maps, that lead to towns and cities where all the weakness of man is not only recognized,
But also, understood, appreciated and embraced.
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