This author is beyond psychiatric help. Blacktop slick and wet.
Exhaust pollutes the night air with mechanical sighs.
The downpour beats a Neil Peart drum solo on the roof and windows as static crackles through the speakers. You turn the radio down. You are drawing near. Revolving red and white lights reflect off the twisted, steaming metal and fragments of broken glass twinkling in the pavement. Driving by at the insistence of a flashlight-waving cop, your eyes record flashbulb images.