Man of Action

I woke up this morning and my car was gone.

October mornings are blue, and October skies are bright blue and covered with rolling gray clouds that slide above us in the wind.

When you're a passenger, the world slides by. Desperately tired from a weekend of work and a night without much sleep, Chack ponders aimlessly as he goes to retrieve Icarus.

The sun shines brightly down, casting large shadows where leaves drift aimlessly down through the atmosphere. From one cemetery to another, Chack recounts the privilege of autonomy as he travels into his past. Along the highways and past the churches, under the bridges and through the trees aflame, in silence he swiftly moves until he comes to the top of a hill, overlooking a different vista- a cemetery on a hill, banked sharply downwards revealing under the rapidly thinning sun the massive sports-complex of the Meadowlands, and numerous industrial sites filling up the area below for miles around. Lights begin to flicker on; an eerie juxtaposition of graves set to the modern oil industry.

Upon arrival, standing in the waiting room, Chack stands face to face with a blue Oldsmobile sitting in his father's lot, an Eighty-Eight or Ninety-Eight; he is unsure which. For a moment, just a moment, time holds still. It lacks a grille, and much of the front is sitting in the lot, silently destroyed, its front components twisted or missing - dead or dying. How long it had been there, or what fate it had met, he was unsure; and yet, he knew what those moments must have been like.

Along darkening roads, from a routine repair, heading east away from a setting sun, Icarus rode home, sharing new vigor with its pilot.