Oafishly Awed Driver

At the steering wheel, I am inanely awed by how my car greedily gulps down into its hood that interminable stretch of gray highway snaking out as a huge, obsidian conveyor belt from the edge of the earth where the rim of the opalescent sky at daybreak begins. In the same oafish wonder, I see the pavement itself rush in and zoom in an ashen blur under the wan headlights, only to be belched out as smoky smithereens filling up the rearview mirror, disappearing into the oblivion of speed and distance far, far behind.