More you might like
The Lancia 037 is not a car, a machine, an object- I can’t fathom that anyone could sit in it or touch it or smell it or measure the span- I can only imagine it a djinn, a lonely spectre of speed, ageless, heralded by a dust cloud- its wheels churning day and night, relentless- spoken of in rumor, Fiat taillamps from the 124 it once swallowed- every video or picture taken dismissed by sums of critics, it’s a hoax, light playing on the lens, no proof has ever been presented of this- it was surely created eons ago by particles of space-dust shed by man’s collective divine call to speed curled by relentless gravity of ambient courage into an empheral NACA-slit creature spanning continents with buzzsaw twincharged roar; its reason is itself; irreducible, prime.
HALLELUJAH VISCERAL JOY OF JOYS DAWNING SPRINGING ETERNAL