Dust

We bake as we dance across the world, leaving great plumes of dust in our wake. Our tyres find no ruts, no holes, no stones to slow us down, and the smell of hot oil is overpowering in the stale air. Flying through these places as we do, we miss so much of the playground that we live in. We don't see beauty or smell nature anymore. All that's left for us is the sound of static on the radio. Some would argue that the car has let us see the world. I say that it has made us blind to it.