Nine hundred and ninety nine kilometres still to go. The lights of the highway seared through the night, speeding along bright roadside buildings cut through the mind like the sharpest knife slashing again and again; the journey is nothing more than a shower curtain left in shreds and ripped to the floor once more by Janet Leigh.
Powering rapidly onwards the destination beckons, but barely seems to draw nearer. The darkest part of the night appears no different when in the confines of this comfortable mobile bubble, three tons of transport. Seven hundred and thirty seven kilometres, the dawn breaks and it is less than five hundred.
The half light of a new morning is rich in promise, the stench of fourteen hours on the road turns the stomach, and as the day eases it’s weary way to mid-morning that promise is spent. The milestone of three figures left is reached shortly before the car careers through the central barrier, and comes to a sudden halt face to face with the towering wall of a heavy cargo vehicle. The driver had lost control. In the wide span of a hundred billion human lives lived and expired one more lost appears insignificant.