Prehistoric Baptisim

The thick leaves turn to mush under the Buick as I drive deeper into the lowlands. Only a few more miles and I will be at the tar pits.
The curtains in my mind are drawn. I have taken myself out of the equation... all of the equations.
The pits smell like prehistory. They are so black, so impossibly black. I wade out into the sludge, and right before my body sinks and vanishes into the dark oblivion, I crack a smile and I think of you.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tar_pit