It’s time to time the time. Seventy nine dot one nine dot nine. The sirens of song. Smooth sailing jazz state one oh eight. 87 minutes past the border between Warpsday and Weftsday. 44 past half past one. Thanks for frequently modulating on this evening. And. It’s time for the traffic report. If we can find Ken.

Ken?

Oh.

Here’s your traffic report:

It’s pitch black and you’re maybe 54 miles outside Cleveland by now. You should be at least that close, I mean, you’ve been making pretty good time but— something is ...

It’s usually quiet this time of night, but—. Usually there’s the odd headlight or a taillight or something coming or going to make sense of. You haven’t seen another car in miles.

Can’t really see anything at all except the engine light (You are checking it), the Gas tank warning light (it is low) and the highway lines passing us by (holding solid on the right, breaking rhythm on the left).

You’re listing. yawing. The tires and the wheel-well rubbing their treads together, making a deep thrum. Like a mess of monks, chanting in a cave in the woods, doing their summoning. Solid line on the right and broken line on the left is a good sign. You haven’t wandered too far

You’re barely awake. Blinking longer, every time. And after each blink, each eye-lid needs a full construction crew to reopen. Chains and cranes and bulldozers and everything. Once they’ve winched the lid up by the lashes, like a portcullis. It dangles there for a moment in the breeze, letting a little bit of whatever light there is in—the engine light, gas tank, highway lines—then it crashes back down.

Traffic? Traffic is good. Miles and miles of open road. Beside the road— don’t even ask. It just drops away. Sometimes there’s a gravel shoulder, but mostly it just drops away. There’s nothing out there. Only theories. Theoretically there’s cornfields. Theoretically there’s a lake. But that’s not traffic. This is your traffic report.

Traffic is good, but you’re ready for a new feature. Anything! The glow of a factory over to the right. Or an overpass to pass on under. Or lane mergers to circumvent. Or one single other car. Or exit 54.

You should have passed Sandusky by now, right?

The night feels even thicker than last time you checked (the last time your eyes were open). Probably another fog rolled off side of the theoretical lake. But something else, too, like maybe the sky is painted over with blackout and lowering; pushing mushy fuzz on top of the car. You can still fit under it at least for now, so you keep driving.

A yawn comes. And this one might be that yawn. The one that opens up space and draws in air, but keeps going and never ends, never resolves. Your mouth opening wider and wider — unhinged. The blood pumping in your ears. Rushing like Niagara Falls. Your vision blurring. Reconstituting. Then blurring more. Your heart pounding. The air still pouring into you. Yet you’re still yawning.

The engine light, the gas gauge and the highway lines are brighter than the sun.

Everything else is black.

Back to you, Ken.