Commute (Inktober 2016, 2/31)

After a while the separate trips blurred together. Was he going to work or from it? He knew he did both yesterday but is right now today or tomorrow? The in-betweens got foggy and then disappeared altogether. He was on the road, hands in 10 and 2 position, seatbelt gently holding him and the interior rhythmically lit by the street lamps. Deep darkness to his left and to his right. Did he lock the front door before leaving? Or was it the lights at the office he forgot to switch off? He felt he had forgotten something.
Why aren't there any other cars on the road?
The road bends left then right, then a straight stretch for a while. Rinse and repeat.
Where was he going again? Where from? To him it doesn't really matter anymore.
The low hum of the engine soothes him. He doesn't want to go anywhere, anyway.
He smiles and closes his eyes.
Darkness all around and the comforting hum of the engine.