I want to be a race car. Feel the gravel burn from the traction of my bare calloused feet. I’ll run until the stars are in my mouth. Across the breaths of heaven. Across the dust that parts those of us below that are born from mothers and those above that are born from belief. Redirected hope gives pedestals a purpose. I just hope that there’s no tax to cross those above. I don’t know their currency. And all I have is the skin that hangs from my soul. Maybe I could give a toe. Or a rib. A kidney as a golden bribe for a safe journey back. If I decide to turn back. All I want is to run. Get as close as I can to moving as fast as an atom. And maybe then I can become a part of something bigger than me. Bigger than these problems of days that start to tack themselves like sickness to the way my hairs settle when the wind dies down. With enough speed I’ll become just a minuscule building block of a larger organism. If I knew the being I was a piece of would I care to treat it well? Or would I still just carry out the duty felt in my heart. Even if it didn’t benefit my new being. Hearts aren’t always right. But you know what are? Stars. I wonder what they taste like. Water and pop rocks. Stars are always right because when it comes to stars, we don’t know what wrong is. I wonder if they do. If they don’t, then I want to be one. I’m a race car driven by a star. (I want to be free).