It is supposed to end without punctuation.

this is the end

May 15, 2004

It's cold, and I stuff my hands beneath my thighs in an attempt to keep warm. The air conditioning is on full-blast, keeping the fog from arising due to humidity. Outside it's raining, only slight, but enough that the windshield wipers have to go on. He's playing with the radio dial, trying to find the medium where the music is loud but we can still talk without shouting.

You're driving, eyes on the darkened road that stretches on endless. The headlights don't show much of what's ahead. No bright white headlights or red brake lights show where the road is, this driving is becoming more of a guessing game than follow the leader.

I'm leaning against the doorframe, seatbelt digging into my shoulder and I shift ever so slightly to avoid the snare drum creating a crease in my arm.

I sigh and close my eyes, shiver again, it starts at my shoulders and reaches my spine before appearing again at my ankles. I'm cold, and I know that protesting would be futile, we can't turn it up for fear of fog. And now I'm licking dry lips and opening my eyes back to the dark and the road.

And I see headlights now, facing us, and I settle in again, leaning up against the door. I notice how the truck seems to be coming straight for us, but I dismiss it as a trick of the curve in the road. Then it's still approaching, and neither of us is moving, and you're yelling in the front seat for us to move, move, and he's frozen and as the lights blind me all I can think is I never told you