45 minutes, Montreal to the south shore at 2am. Beaches, waves of snow. My car heater is not working and I’m fucking freezing… I think about that home made sybian. When I move my hair your smell invades my memories, fresh as the white banks on each side of the ghost road. A pink coffee in a pill to make sure I don’t swoon myself to sleep in the storm. One, two, three cars fall in the ditch. Could’ve been worst. Could’ve been me. Could’ve been the last of you gripping my hair to make me look in the mirror. The soreness in the morning will make me smile. And while it will be your turn to drive away tomorrow, I’ll finally have a shower and smile some more.