fudgemonkey
Twisting, stark and strong, pulsing with dominance and might.
Tiny, tiny, building blocks of what we call brilliance, pain, and tragedy now. Yet our feelings are for ourself, nothing else can make those up.
The radio was cracked and old, it's speakers rusted and emited fuzzy noises intead of music. It lived in my garage; I barely used it any more since I had newer techology. But sometimes I would turn it on just to here the blunted sounds that reminded me so much of my dead father. It was his radio, after all.
Sleek and stylish on the outside, plush and pampered inside. Gliding through the streets with refined elegance, weaving between the old and rusted cars and not paying anyone else even a glance. Never pausing in its path for a bit of humor. Black tinted windows hiding your instincts.
I've smeared it with paint. It'd black fabric underneath had just seemed so dull, so I had brandished a wide-brushed paint brush and slashed it with color. Now it seems too bright.