Trees fly by, smudged acrylic. Cars spaghettify, wheat fields dance. I am the hurricane, my eyes are canvas, a musical score. We pass small towns, quarked lives of blurred faces. I want to live the lives of all the people I can’t know, to drive on the wrong side of the road. I am constrained by my body, I am constrained by time and physical distance, by one conscious mind. Who wants to trade souls? A lonely gas station hurtles into view.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.