Is it every 3, 000 miles or thrice that with something synthetic, something not drawn from sea-bottom or rocky bowels? But let’s go au naturel, the sticker on the window transparent, easily seen through, the miles to go not a measure of the Big Journey, nearest Starbuck’s (using the gift debit card). Not just fear, low oil pressure, this motor of yours is about to give out, what did you think? Screw all that. This baby’s good to go. Smooth as fluid through a stent. Agile as a new knee. Crackling like a statin in the clogged avenue that opens at the sea, from which you’re returning so oiled, singing along a wrong-way river.
John Allman | Waiting Room Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)