Don’t Overthink It

You’re flying. You drive these paradise roads, wide open, five lanes all yours, a flawless plane of tarmacadam, whiteline paint in perfect rectangles. You stream through a pristine beach of white sand. Pristine – when you think about it – apart from the five-lane carriageway dragged through, weeks under construction by belching diggers. Don’t overthink it. You’re flying. Palm trees.

You relax your shoulders back into the embrace of your Ferrari. Such speed you’re invincible to the scenery, CG girl shotgun, pedal flat. It’s nirvana, racecar dreamer. Nirvana – when you think about it – apart from the coin-controlled time limit, the total absence of daylight and no air that hasn’t been churned through mechanical guts then smoked into. Don’t overthink it. Drop another coin.