Date: May 14th, 2020 9:10 AM
Author: Spruce laughsome hall faggotry
I love it. I honestly love it. I've been combing over those leaked images every night for the past month now. I wait until the conference calls have ended and the sun's gone down, the family's sleeping and the city streets are quiet. And I pour a nice glass of WhistlePig 18, a couple drops of water to open it up but never too much to dilute the profile, and it's just me approaching the temple now, the beckoning glow of the laptop there on the desk, the susurrus of "Bronco" whirring out from its speakers, and I'll sit in my reception study and just agonize over every curve, every angle and pillar and body line of this great vehicle, a testament to everything that is right in American automotive design, our own little bauhaus shout defiant against the rising tides of excess and ugly splendor decaying an industry that was once graced by the likes of Raymond Loewy, and there I am, crying, literally bawling like a baby pulled from its mother's milking teat, desperate to put myself *into* this thing, to literally enmesh my body within its aluminium-steel superstructure, to feel its pieces piercing my liver and kidneys and heart and lungs as I orgiastically shout for joy, that I'm finally at this foretold end state, becoming one with a new 2021 Ford Bronco, completing the mission that God in his infinite wisdom and unfolding divinity saw fit to bring me to Earth to pursue, and suddenly it's morning, the light rising over the balanced line of the trimmed trees beyond the study, and I'm going back through the motions of another day, the endless Zooms and Webecies and tired arguments and banal strategic "decisions," the washing weight of a family of burdens and tedium, only to get back there to the Bronco again, to see its image lighting up the night once more from my study, to be with it another and another and another night, endless succession of passion.