Four stories of glass, the relentless optimism of a high ceiling to carry it,I'd will for us to be held in traffic as we drove past Majestic Mercedes.
Is the magic in being the glazed overlay, our car skimming over others
in showroom condition or is it the power of messaging, our young minds
never seeing the strain in the steady application of wax, thinking we
simply have the power to buy new and it will stay new, the car, the antidote.
We had a showroom church in Majestic Mercedes, we'd drive past and the
three pointed star, the crisp fine tipped windfarm origin story, I'd will the
traffic dead, but still the five seconds to pass it, I'd be somewhere else,
entirely. Dead gone, so comforted, how messaging is measured for the
minds of the young. I absolutely hate cars now, my heart just sinks when I have to
think about mine, I hate sitting in cars, looking out of their windows, thinking
about cars, thinking about what complete nonsense is put in the way of
getting from A to B, I hate how people just sit there idling waiting for
alternate side parking to end, wars are fought so we can just sit in an idling
car not going anywhere but across the street, cars are terrible, yet now,
when I see the four stories of glass and I'm in the glass, my dad in front
seat, eyes on the road, I see a strange and unknowable future, that one day
we might be on the forecourt there, with a serious intent to buy, no-one
turning from the sales rep, my dad disingenuously asking about mirrors,
and shades of metallic.
