Junkyard 1 week 6

Driving home last night, the jeep two car lengths on front of me stopped quickly, allowing me to notice the bike attached to the back. The tires, spinning with the wind, seemed to keep time with the song on my radio. I wonder briefly about my ex, and his 1962 Camaro that he jacked from his father, that night we snuck out and drove down 166--me singing to Riptide and you, staring blankly out the windshield. Contemplating, not life, but something more Poe-like, prophetical. 

He turned, saying, "it's never about money, but it's always about money," squeeling the corner into the grass, needling through asphalt. We are stamped, still, almost hyperbolic.