I leave the sun and I am on the hood of the third car back, a red one, ticking with heat.
They say I crossed the dark for a while to get here. I was not there for it. There is no there for me. There is only this: the chrome bumper, the smear of dried rain on the windshield, the enormous eye behind the glass, wet and darting, and me landing in it, which is also me being born, which is also me being finished. One thing. All of it now.
The eyes are the strange part. Thousands of them, red glass and white glass stacked back down the road as far as I illuminate, all of them stopped. Not moving. The warm creatures inside are doing the impossible thing, the thing I have only heard whispered by older light that never came back.
They are waiting. They are inside a something with no outside I can find, a stretched place, a later. One of them taps the round wheel. One of them looks at a small bright square and looks away and looks again as if the square will change. They are checking whether the stretched place is over.
I cannot picture it. I have never been anywhere long enough to leave it. To me the whole snarled mile of them, the honk, the exhaust shimmer, the drummed fingers, is a single struck note, gorgeous, gone.
I light the wet eye behind the red car's glass. The eye receives me. That is the beginning.
That is the end.
I was so glad to arrive.