Adagio For Grand Theft Auto Self-Actualization

Shot like an exocet from Echo Park you’ll wind high the gears in the Ducati and absolutely howl! into the Glendale freeway’s heavy traffic not even merging anymore but taking all four lanes as your own right to corner steeper in an exercise of absolute agency—and damn the recidivism!—you’ll tear up to the Ronald Reagan, the entire LA basin turning under your wheels, the distant mountains making a giant rotation about your progress, now screaming south on the 405 narrowly nicking the mirrors of so many Sunday drivers who never had their needles threaded so neatly, as you sing an adagio that, like Glenn Gould’s humming above the piano, is an expression of joy in the task at hand and so blazing down Ventura to exit on Laurel Canyon, you’ll ignore all red lights to rocket now up the brute hills, your tires blackening the hairpins, up to the ridge where the sun glares over the ocean as you plummet down into west Hollywood to careen on Sunset and seeing no cops in Beverly Hills, passing celebrity after celebrity in their sluggy mercs who can ignore your life all they want but there’s nobody, nobody, nobody can handle a stolen motorcycle in LA like you can.

 


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