Peter Schwartz

Whatever tolls whatever taxes, how quietly they melt away. The radio hums another young something for who knows who as we roll by huge trucks that fuck us a little like a mirage of police cars speeding even faster because that blur's sanctified by much more than guns. The highway itself is held hostage by radar and satellite but when you pull out a bag of cookies we might as well be masturbating. This is our fortress, our stand against the fog and weather control and obvious extinction. You turn the station and we dance sitting. We fight with pleasure in our hearts, the strangest battle.