And suddenly I decided to write. It came as I drove past the Hertz rent-a-machine parking lot, all the jointed arms of cranes cocked and angled and catching the yellowed lamp light — my eye registered the scene as my brother’s would, the moment frozen in time in oil paint on a canvas, otherworldly, artistic in its simple, realistic beauty. I sat up in my seat, rolled the volume to the right and the music poured into the car, filled it up until it spilled down my eardrums and into my veins, beating in my brain, reverb, reverb, reverberating its mechanic, rhythmic beat around in my soul. I drove fast and the music kept up with me. The road was like a treadmill spinning frantically faster and faster, the white lines blurring into bass beats. And so that was it. An image. Music. All it lacked was words.

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