Detroit is a shit hole.
Driving down Highway 59 is like passing through a hospital: Off whites and slate greys mingle into an indistinct and oppressive haze. There's a sense of sterility and morbidity.
Poverty comes to mind; that may just be a personal association, but crippling medical costs and cracked asphalt don't help.
Talk radio is discussing the great, and recently late, Aretha Franklin. I think of talk radio's illustrious history and its decline in the wake of smart phones and podcasts.
The voice on the radio is washed out by a wave of static.
I should be focusing on the task at hand. I pass a burnt out street light. Aretha Franklin occasionally headlined at her own nightclub up until her death.
Ahead of me, a matte grey sedan makes a right turn from the left lane. I gently brake and reach my arm over to the passenger seat to stop the sword resting there from sliding around too much.
Low grey clouds provide a ceiling with no end in sight. This city has outlived its usefulness but is still hanging on.
Another wave of static hits, and another station's signal is carried through it. This one is playing Franklin's 'I say a little prayer'.
Over the double-time tic of my turn signal, the radio is briefly torn between contextualising Aretha Franklin and revealing her. I can relate.