Hybrid dreams

for B

The car sat along the grass, huddled, very fuel-efficient.  Through the double frame of an open window and an open door, it watched the backside of a screen.  It saw, in shaded verso, cast from a projector that would have thrown its cone of light straight into the dim headlights if not for the blockage of the screen, one of those ads in which the cars do nothing but drift all day, slung low and across the horizon skittering across the infinite crystalline dust of the salt flats. 

Ah, it said, turning over with a lubed cough, there really is too much friction in this world of ours.  To slide like a hot coffin on ice, boy, now that would really be something...