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I was never too fixated with explosions, you see, until someone, my former lover of sorts, perhaps, seemed to show me well, tell me that she was completely absorbed within the idea of, or with her cigarette, you see, she used to smoke everyplace we ever seemed to run off to, the smoke clouds would not only replace her face, but it became an expression, it became her, it became her voice. She, miraculously, left a constant trail of it behind her as well. Anyway, sorry to get carried away, but she would be riding with me in the car, jus' wanderin' about, we would be, she'd sit more than silently within herself, mind, or whatever it may be. She would be there, she would tell me, no, not tell me, but later tell me, this was before she had died, decided to die, really (which is humorous considering the topic here is relative to vehicles...and she...and vehicles....well, yes, that would be the end of her, carbon monoxide shouldn't be so compelling). She would be relentless with her watching of cars, she hardly spoke to me while on the road, no matter who was driving. She attentively glared at these cars as if out of envy, of perhaps being a machine, which she has always despised but oh, so desperately wished to be one. She stared in a dreamy, lustful state, smoking, and when her cigarette had been midway through, partially unsmoked, she would let the ash lay there, as I always noticed far too late because it would fall into my car, onto the interior of my window, the cherry burning permanent memories, ingraining them. Later in the week my car would be utterly engulfed in ash. She  gawked and hoped silently every second for a gasoline leak someplace near. Later, when I first heard of all this, I'd never heard her speak so deeply and impassioned about any subject. Anyway, she wished to toss her purposely half-smoked cigarette effortlessly in a daze and watch the cherry strike the gasoline in just the right way. When she happened to mention it the second time, though, it was more casual, with such nonchalance, it became enraging to me. You see though, her elegance overtook all, it was so overwhelming. There was never anything else in those days. It was purely silence and depressing beauty laced with recollection of times we used to speak. All of this though, was often only beautiful to us. Her blood stained my carpet. Not as if she was murdered or anything, never. Although she had wished me to asphyxiate her on more than several occasions. With her charcoal hair resting on the cusp of where her ribs would end, she would often snatch it up and more-than playfully wrap it about her neck to amuse herself, and it did, thoroughly.  I was never ashamed or afraid of it. Though it seemed to frighten others when we tried to gain or maintain friendships at all. She was the reason I could never go out or ever love....not another woman, per se, but parents, friends, cats even. I had to rid of Winslo when she moved in with me. He needed too much of my attention, took up a little too much of my oh, so precious time. It was surprising how engulfing her personality could be. All of this time was obviously needed for warming her and persuading her from destroying ever bit of furniture we owned, or any of her organs, for that matter. Appendages, mostly, is what her goal was to eliminate. Anyway, she always seemed so goddamn impressed by those incorrigible explosions that a gasoline fire may start. She wondered, quite frequently, why cars didn't more often spit out gasoline at their will. Machines should have been suicidal anyhow. Their purpose: to serve you. So, there  you have it, explode for me, you lovely drone. I want you and I, together, to rest inside a cloud of ashy, fiery, justice. I want us to go down together, just like the way you were raised, with me. Because I was your mother...father...and if not I, it was quite obviously my grandfather. Anyway, did I fail to mention that when the ash of a cigarette hangs from a cigarette for far too long it begins to resemble the way a straw wrapper looks after the straw breaks free of it for the first and only time, the straw emerging from it's mother's womb. Though a straw, of course, possesses no umbilical cord. Oh, the vain, bane of my existence. These days it was buried more than six feet under, seeing as I threw her body into a cave at the bottom of myself.