The caravan drove onward, following purposely toward its own end as if to a slaughterhouse, suffering under the eternal indifference of the Texas sun. After these months together, bound by trappings of shared experience to which all social animals are susceptible, the time was coming to scatter to the wind. The ache to fight it was unspeakable and counter to high walls of self-preservation each had constructed precariously, in instinctual calculation, over all their decades apart. Or so hoped the director in the lead car. He was alone physically and hoped that he shared in his emotional isolation as well; the tip of an unspeakable archipelago of memory and fantasy and projection.
Notes: The goal behind this exercise was to be overly lyrical, literary to the point of arrogance, and even purple. Writing poorly on purpose teaches you to avoid doing so accidentally.
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