The Lost Dream
No one left to talk to. No one to listen. A boneyard of lost years and blind alleys. Crazed eyes trapped in bodies.
Echoes in a landscape without boundaries, haphazard stabs at salvation. A frantic last stand, spinning straw into ugliness behind a thin membrane of opulence, waiting for the knife.
Drivers, start your engines.
Fifty laps around the lost dream.
