Honk if there’s always a giant white tractor trailer, chugging and snorting it’s way through an intersection out of the corner of your eye. In your mind’s periphery. A half thought. Mildly irritating, not close enough to really affect your state of mind. Every now and then, during a rare moment of thoughtlessness your eyes focus on it, in the middle distance, a haunted husk. Part of the cacophony of Brooklyn. Doomed to circle you endlessly. A whiff of an unsettled moment. If you try to walk toward it, to follow the sound, it keeps its distance. Like a part in a video game you’re not supposed to focus on, it’s not really there. A bloated tick of the free market. If you hunt it down it becomes a glitchy boring error. An evil banality. It can be heard in the background of your voicemails. It was there when you walked home from the night that led to your divorce. It was passing by the window of the diner in which you bought Jack a hamburger on his fifth day clean. A giant white beast in the distance of your life. An appalling whiteness. White stained with streaks of burn oxidized fuel. Loaded with impulse buys. Loaded with memories of years passed. An unexampled, un-intelligent malignity. It rumbled your apartment on McGuiness the morning you woke up next to one of the Saras. The morning you stole back in wearing a dress and Doc Martens. It was honking it’s huge air horn as you held up traffic trying to pack the van. You watched a water glass tremble before calling your sponsor. A natural terror. It was present when you relapsed, as you rounded the corner to buy the day’s bundle. Using sign language and broken Spanish to communicate what you wanted. Vente. Dos. It startled you from your phone as you texted through tears re: Gramp’s passing. Your memories always have a spash of dirty white in them. The kind of thing that would show up in the corner of your portrait had you been a wealthy land barron from another time. Depicted as a filthy stag with a wild vindictiveness in its eyes. Ineffable. A barely restrained ferocity. The ferocity of chance, of happenstance in a bad way, of the dice as they roll. Honk if you imbue everything with meaning. And honk if meaning itself contained menace, a power. Too much meaning. Meaning was too big of responsibility for you, you wielded it clumsily. Pop songs became abstract expressions of a higher yearning. News headlines as poems. Assembly instructions are an inside joke.