Not pitch black
more like fuzzy grey. Television static snow
This fog cloud of fuzz has a stench to it; Vinegar.
We make a turn, a bit too whimsically, and I thump my head.
Small holes of subtle moonlight seep in, stifled by the artificial neons nearby
Brisk air rushes my face as we accelerate.
I try to reach out to steady myself. clank. nothing.
"Ah, DAMN it!" the sobering realization of restraints.
And that's when I knew I was en route to jail. not again.
"God I have to piss"
Now my own contributing addition amongst the, already, sulfuric ambiance.
Just as the back door exit of my paddy wagon escort's doors fly open and I'm saturated in the blinding fluorescence