I’ve been chasing ghosts since last night.
Catching barely the tail end of them they slip my grasp. A specter of a friend.
I’m tracing curves in the sand.
The hours are passing.
Motorstorm RC has consumed me. Chasing my friend’s ghost has me running circles, grasping for milliseconds.
Somewhere in those tracks there is a perfect racing line, a path of pure absolute zen. I Inch closer to a state of synchronization between my body and the machine.
It’s something only the purest of racers can instill. Uncluttered by the additions of realism these games break down into not racing games, but driving games.
Ridge Racer. Outrun. They carry physics which have no ties with reality. They are populated by vehicles with faceless drivers. Ostensibly, these are the people you are competing with.
Nothing but shells. Targets to outrun.
These are roads separated from the world. Populated by ghosts who forever circle this track.
This is the afterlife of automobiles.
Gas is infinite.
The road is endless.
And ghosts trace a calligraphic curves around a circuit.
Forever grasping for milliseconds.