Ode to Car-bed

Here in my world cave outside is slow and safe. My dugout of a car insulates me against the foreboding cold of twilight. My smallness is secondary to my thoughts, my stillness beats out my fears, and mountains magnified in the morning are of no consequence, quiescent at night. When I retire to car-bed I become a shadow piece, free of personality and fret—feeling only triumph over that act of living past another day.