Work Text:
Blown out tires.
The ones you see on the side of the road, the mangled black rubber sitting, rotting as cars zoom past. At least they weren't so lonely on the city highways.
But the old blown tires on a country road? Desolate, dusty, lonely. Broken and abandoned in the dirt, but even then, the dirt won't take the tire, tires don't sink. There the tire sits, old, broken, rotted, alone.
Thinking about what it used to be; rolling along that same road it rots on, taking an old truck back and forth between destinations. Useful. But now it sits alone, once deemed useful, one tiny hole or tear, one unfortunate pothole, one small pebble in the wrong place and now it's useless. Even tires are fragile.