Ghost Cop

I push my accelerator flat to the floor and fly through the dilapidated city, speeding past trucks and sundry motorists in a groggy haze of pharmaceuticals and alcohol. I am awash with memories, both ancient and new formed, which arise like flames and meld into heady, non-sensical visions, like weird static, which cause my body to twitch and recoil in odd ways. I am a smorgasbord of ghosts, a bleeding morass, a symphony of sorrow, but still I pursue my day job as a policeman, a wry delusion that some brand of justice should be upheld in this rapidly deteriorating dystopia of crime and miscreancy, even with my own standards shattered and blown apart, like mad confetti. The sky is a silhouette traced in neon and the reflected haze of the city space. I chase the dotted lines of the highway with jaded abandon, seeking to purge the ghosts I can never purge, seeking to unremember my jumbled recollections of pain and the heavy toll of ingrained hubris.