It was hot in the car as we drove through the rain. Water ran down the windows, blurring everything except the already hazy glow that poured out from the street lamps. The broken droplets caught the light, transforming it into a watercolor painting. Vague but certain, this perfect representation defied the Heisenberg principle. 

Physics ceases to function after a couple of hours on the road.  Nose pressed against the cold glass, you forget there is cement beneath you. The present is obscured by its continuous consumption. My mother had her hands on the steering wheel, her eyes elsewhere. I reached for the radio dial but thought better of it. We hadn’t stepped on the brakes yet. That was music enough. We were flying with dream-like dissonance, our bodies separate from our movement.