I take up the middle row. Legs draped over the end of the seat as the world flashes by outside the van windows. The back two are cracked, thin web-like veins tracing top to bottom and side. The tires are almost bald, except for the spare because one finally went flat. Don't worry, its not the rainy season yet. We'll still fly by others on the road when it pours as if physics doesn't apply to us. This space will never know clean again. Dirt and trash float around like blood in veins and will only cease when the van is dead and our crew no longer sits within to give it life. A can rolls and clatters across the floor, its ringing cutting across the conversation from the front and music blaring while the denizens of the back doze, cradled by the rocking sensation of the windy road that sits above the ocean.
