though wish it not.
I worry of man's lifetimes and tendencies of leave..
though wish them not.
Without one lap through cones grown of diamond..
I wish it not.
I see these cones laid soft atop the black.. though melt and grow they have.
As I approach closer, to left about one, it is sturdy and rigid. Hit it with this car I may,
and die, or not drive anymore.
tension and decision and malaise and open thought have made this cone so hard.
and though here I corner it, it seems as though I need turn more than other cones before.
Downshift.. but fuck, the bushing's dropped, a nightmare of times past...
the clutch is limp and to the floor, but without it I will shift.
match revs... 7 first grind down... now.. still no power steering. why?
ebrake to start the oversteer, thirty now, I hold myself..
this cone seems inlaid with iron pure, not diamond now
but much less clean..
second comes as revs drop, wheel spin, turned into the turn, right... then left when oversteer is done
though out this window I can almost touch this cone, this hurdle, this pain of mind
why so big and hard to turn.. others before hadn't this trouble minutes before..
press on to bounce at second gear's height... and again a cone, much greater
than the last. why life's cones grow and find their way to mind I do not know,
though I wish I could so see it as all others, orange and soft.
I would not fear that cone, now though I can't shift I don't care so much..
I don't need a fucking clutch.
I can rev match anyday. fuck this course. no one will do it as well as I.