First of November, a rather mild and sunny day. We take the old Mitsubishi close to the Alps for a 6-hour hike. With six people onboard, we installed the plus-two upgrade in the trunk, barely leaving space for my feet (or anything else, in fact). A place I inhabit for the duration of the drive. The construction is rather interesting: Hidden inside the truck are two fold-out seats plus seatbelts, which plop out when lightly pulling on a small tab attached to it. Stash it away and you have a trunk as large a small storage room, unfold it and (legally!) carry up to seven people.
No one occupies the second seat, so I evade the lack of comfort of this impromptu seat and spread out on both seats like a lazy cat. I listen to the large subwoofer right next to me, which grumblingly bashes the rhythm of whatever the car stereo is playing, and gaze out the small trapezoid window, focussing on the small snippets of reality as they rush by. Images of trees, cars and roads flash by as I try to focus my eyes, all submerged in a sea of blurry lines whenever I do not. Not being able to see what lies ahead has the curious consequence of having to piece together whatever may lie outside using these small glimpses I catch through that small trapezoid window. Reality condenses into perception as it leaves its imprint onto the senses, forced through the perspective you take.