The Old Ones, by Night

I remember when we used ride around and get so stoned and nothing else mattered. I'd press my forehead to the damp and crisply chilly window and look at the lights ripping by as if they'd be the death of us, some illuminated tons of steal pummeling our car. And we'd be hurt or worse but it wouldn't matter because the real tragedy would be that a bunch of honor roll kids were smoking pot when it happened. 

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I remember exactly where I was when I heard about the suicides of two different friends--the first, in my bedroom, and the second, driving to my new job. I quit later that week. The first time, I held back tears. The second, I tried not to die with him.

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Every night I spent in the car with my friends getting baked and wasting money and time, (such precious time,) was worth it, because I wasn't alone. If those lights lit up our car for a second longer than they did just then, we'd have burned out bright. For once, in each other's company we'd all really finally lose it, as opposed to the defense with which we covered ourselves like the blanket of night in which we used to drive around and get so stoned and nothing else mattered.