Driving home on a cold night.

It's eerie. Your gas gauge is straddling empty. Smeared blushes of night collect themselves around my car, hugging close--impenetrable shade. They sweep perilously about churning, black tires which threaten to suck them into a gyre of bitter demise. Thoughts of anarchy and blood are catalyzed by the subtle softness of scaling heartache. The heart whimpers; it does not thud--when did I last hear it beat soundly? Was it when our hearts were one? Alas!--Now two.

Such thoughts happen only after a great day. A day of happiness, thought, and meaning. You think: How ironic would it be if I were to die right now? Right when I feel as if I'm on top of the world (world, world). The thought sets in. Sinks in. Molten introspection splices open your pores. You would be gla--highway rumble strips pull you back to reality.

Doomsday thoughts subside. You are left to analyze the day. A weight is there, just below the shoulder blade: the unprocessed conscious of coming down from your "high". The mind must balance mirth and misery. The mind seeks to become destitute and unforgiving for a while because you have delved greedily into too much happiness. The lights of other cars pass by and they annoy you.

Someone said they were proud of you today. Someone said they liked you. Relationship kindled. Fire of passion burns. The night suppresses it. Darkness reigns. Omnipresence is tyranny. You pull off the highway, and turn on your brights. A green wall of forest guards the long turn of belittled back-roads. You are safer with the brights one. It pulls back the curtain: Thoughts become clearer--a meek knife is unsheathed against the dark. It offers no comfort, for what weapon may deter obscurity and depression incarnate?

The gauge begins to rest upon the 'E'. The lighted, plastic pin lays dying upon the end of the line. It has its finale: two sloshing quarts of gasoline.

There is the epiphany! As fire begets ash, greatness begets depression, and a whirling centrifuge infuses reality to a circle. The burning wonder of joy trickles slowly down into a muddied puddle of dour brown and sour black.

Your driveway flashes by. The slow-turning reels of realism increase in velocity. Acceleration spurred by melancholy and intense contemplation. Your house comes at you faster than you remember. You can see through the walls into the house where the lights are off and deeper darkness lingers haughtily. The crack of breaking glass. A distinct thud of crushing wood. The gas light comes on; looks like you're empty.