7.4 and they turn and they turn...

Cahuenga to Beverly Glen and instantly and in stretches it smells like cum, something in the trees. I start my climb and the higher I get the more I need. I bleed my ears as my sound bangs the canyons, back and fourth a thousand times until it dissipates and dies. It follows me like a stream through the turns, above the lights as I tear the flesh from my wheel, from my throat, wishing it would never end, burning -- a heap that just got its match. Sunday. Again. Always. Eyes ripped in the mirror. Red. And behind them, invasion, conquering, and I've already turned from sleep, stuck, and my tires sing and in my mind I yearn for coast. The only one I know. And I want it back, need it back -- something in me begging again, where's my coast, where's my coast...relentless and chasing...where'd it go, where'd you go. Don't you forget. Get it back. Get it back. Run.