G Wagon

The night smells of petrol and cheap whisky again. Headlights cut through the silence, and the bass thumps somewhere inside your chest, like a second heart. When life resembles an endless auction - whoever bids the most gets to live - all that's left is to bang your fist on the table and take what's yours. There's no room for philosophy here: you just drive as long as you have petrol and faith that a new life awaits you somewhere beyond the next intersection.

It seems like the same neighbourhood, the same faces, only the scars have become deeper and the cars more expensive. Instead of the romance of the streets, there is the scent of Jackie and snow that is not always snow. The only comfort is the feeling that no one can catch up now. Not the police, not the past, not your own mistakes left somewhere between the club and the court.