Car Ride 1

    A Monday morning, the same in January as it was in November and December.  I'm mulling over something, something pretty good.  Not really.  But anyway, a school morning as usual, as I walk briskly (I hoped but to no avail) through my chilling garage towards the car.  Throwing my backpack into the car as I always do, I remember this morning a year ago.  Where has the time gone?  Why did this have to change?
    That aside, I lurched into my seat.  The engine hummed to life as the ignition was turned.  Never reluctant, never slow.  The panels sprung to life like last Christmas.  Turning the headlights on, I looked behind, pulled out, and went on down the chilly black road.
    The music came on.  A flute whispered in my ear.  It wasn't a flute, really.  More like a mourning bird.  It called and called.  Nothing answered.  It called again, still with no answer.  In my exhaustion, even I could relate.
    Then, an answer.  I sidled down the first main road of my neighborhood.  "Plink...plank...," was the response at last.  Equally lonely, calling out as well.  A grand piano took the first timid steps.  Then with a lush, came on the small symphony.  It lamented last night, same as me.
    The notes on the piano ascended.  Up and up, but never happier.  Just as chilled as the air outside.  There was no frost on my window, but Frost* echoed in my ears.  A little lower the notes came: there's nothing but dark out there.  A private symphony will do.
    The piano is silent with a lonely high note.  The flute mourns alone, all the more now that the piano has left.  I turn on to the main road and wait expectantly.  The houses glow around me, but their brightness cannot dissolve the devouring black light.  There used to be snow here, but now there's a blanket of sparkling Frost*.  And it began to rain.
    The piano returns.  But this is faster, more urgent.  More desperate.  I've been down this road before.  I was swallowed by a wall of pianos, all reaching out with their grand voices.
    And in came the hi-hat.  The taps of the hi-hat impersonated the trickles of the rain, futile in their attempts to beat down my window.  Like the hi-hat, there's so much energy in those rain drops, but there's a twinge of desperation too.  The hi-hat continues, and the grand piano begins to cry.  The synthesizer comes in, and it begins to scream.
    I reach a red light and I stop.  But the screaming synthesizer has barely begun.  The full power of Frost* reaches me and I nod my head in acknowledgement.  The energy pours in as the electric guitar laments.  The drums drizzle in my ears and the guitar weeps not so gently.  I can't help but muse at this, and the effect it has on me.  How can the glass sound so full, but feel so empty?
    I make my turn on to the main road and everyone changes key.  I feel blue and I feel red, and this morning is cold and unforgiving.  As the keyboard makes its rounds and the guitar struggles, I can't help but think about last night.  I should be used to it by now, but you know how to have your effect on me.  I stop again and wrap myself in the sound as the cage shatters.  Surprising and not: the piano is alone again.  Not for long, I know.  I tap to the tune.  The hi-hat and cymbals pinging like fine glass sculptures ever so gently.  And I follow them.