you want so badly to go back to someplace where you are not. It is someplace you can’t go- save for in sleep, save for the memories that play in the back of your head when you aren’t listening.
“You aren’t fucking listening to me.” says the person you are being paid to listen to.
Glazed stare and you look up- there is nobody there, no recognition of anything but a flash of those highways miles; eyes as deep as the abyss you fell into not long ago.
“Fuck it.” You say. And in your head you walk away.