On the highway, gripping the steering wheel of your car, and that impulse to swerve into the oncoming grille of the semi hurtling down the opposite side of the road. You don't actually do it, of course. Of course. But that moment: you've never felt so pregnant with possibility. Like carrying a myriad of superimposed future selves in your belly, the destruction or survival of which is completely in your control. That easy power over life and death, just a slight turn of the wrist - a glimpse of godhood. Over one million people die from car crashes each year. Anything else that kills so many would be targeted for eradication and subjected to perpetual protest. But to drive is divine. The pale horse of death become a metal beast fueled by oil and blood. You say that you ride it, but in truth it is a loa that rides you. And one day, you will submit to its siren song, smear yourself over the asphalt aisles of its parish of pavement - an auto-erotic sacrifice of flesh and steel.