"You get my messages General?", like speaking across the line of intermittent midwifery, the rider talks to his homie.
"Aye."
"Marquee ye Jolly Rogers".
Shaking vigorously, the pair ride along vast fields of uninhabited land. Reminding each other of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Not so often, when they'd stop for re-fueling, they'd treat themselves to a nice hot cup of French Vanilla with extra sugar and cream. And on its sweetness, they'd mull till they'd cross another 500 mi or so. Many a time, they didn't know why they treated themselves to a coffee made of synthetic flavors, manufactured by machines not cleaned for half a year and more or less, it'd anyway leave a bad taste in their mouth. When he asked his ride, his ride told him it was because sipping coffee together was a way of reminiscing on the fact that maybe the world condemns the shit out of them, but they had each other.
"What is life?"
The rider would ask his ride, as if two post-renaissance philosophers would infuse in a random casual discussion, every late afternoon, under the almond tree while sipping on Jasmine tea.
"Life, as opposed to death, is a force that allows you to live. Living, my friend is an independent thought. When an individual doesn't define his life, the living is nothing but living. When he does define it, he calls it religion. But an individual's living is defined by how much love or hate he has brought upon himself. Thereby, acknowledging what he stands for. Thus eventually, defining life."
The ride continued,
