A car is a car is a car
... until someone mentions Acura. Now, it's no longer a car, but a vision. More than a hallucination, it beckons. More than an imagination, its tenacious clasp fastens on that part of my memory where reside image, sensation, drive, longing, dream, notions of beauty, of time, of shape, of movement. Overnight, I became its torturous prisoner. I fidget a pen, intending on my homework. Instead, the ice-cool metallic feeling ignites another driving horse, one which eyes gleam as two beams in the dark avenues, advances not on hoofs but on gliders, its contact with the asphalt so smooth and effortless it hardly seem moving, the distance it travels only apparent by the speedy winding of the landscape zooming past my eyes. A powerful beast, but an obedient dog to its master. Its will was at my foot, which I press merciless as an insect in the path of falling log.
A car is a car is a car, until I test-drove an Acura. Then I am an accursed son of man, until the day I bring home The Acura. Only then I would be a cured (ah!) boy.