This is the shortest distance between the two points: first we take a long car ride to talk about what's wrong with us, now we meet death, the dangerous pickup truck, pseudo-grinning with it's rusty flat metal grille. We connect the lines to finish the conversation we had only barely started. In a few seconds, I see every word from your lips; I'm frantically trying to lip-read you. It isn't going so well, and that familiar sense of failure is there. I only remember it as being an awake dream because halfway through, shrapnel interrupted the projector between my ears and split my skull open.