You are cruising down the highway in a woodland green Phantom. Top down, wind streaming your hair back and sunglasses hugging your cheek bones.

The roar of the of the engine competes with howl of the atmosphere as you shift down and take a turn into a tunnel.

The old bricks of the walls rush by as the Phantom snakes its way through the passage towards the waiting light of the day.

You jerk the wheel to the right and ram head long into the wall.


The above is math. Every. Single. Time.

Maybe that explains Poland.Charles De Lint






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