Sailing over a bitumen ocean, caught by a wind, the world whips by and whispers as I cut through. Each passed house long asleep, a gentle piano tune is carrying heartbreak in script, volume loud enough to sing along to and pretend the stars a stadium, full, above my windscreen.

The sky lights, illuminating each layer of cloud cover all the way until the coast’s shoreline, before flashing too bright, blinding, washing the image out. Then darkness again, and the low rumbling of the impending.

You won’t be there, I convince myself, but when I get home, you’re home too.