You are alive but very-slow-moving.
Dead things are passing you at astonishing speed, incredible forces.

This is a peculiar equation we drive. Nobody says.

Doppler screams away into the red distances of those unjustly taken,
come around in-your-face cop blue.

The cops pretend to chase those speeding dead things.

You pull over to check your makeup.

You are still made of insect jitter.

You are still made of mercy stutter.