Comatose

The sticky remains of a cheap McDonalds sundae sit in my lap. Spanish crooners vibrate in my ears because that's the only station that comes in. I try to ignore the pain in my sunburnt face, but it is impossible to ignore my scarlet complexion staring back at me in the rearview mirror. My mouth is slightly agape, and my eyes are barely open. I wonder how long it would take anyone to notice if I died. I wonder if I would notice if I died. Then I see my chest rising and falling in synchronisity with the radio's static. Oh well, I guess I'm not dead.

Images of dizzying heights, terrifying beauty, and rolling, tumbling, hardcore wipeouts float in and out of my head. I can't tell if I'm remembering these things, or dreaming them. I consider falling asleep, but then I realize that if I'm already asleep, going to sleep might wake me up.

And so I sit, trying to ignore the pain, but failing; trying to understand the Spanish lyrics, but failing; and trying to fall asleep, but failing.