I stand here, a ghost in my own skin, bathed in the indifferent sun that doesnt care about the weight I carry. My hands, calloused from gripping the chrome of machines that have carried me across continents, rest now on the cold, gleaming steel of two beasts that have become my silent companions. The one on my left, its dark, almost liquid finish, holds a secret in its curves a promise whispered to the wind I no longer chase. The one on my right, with its gleaming blue fairing and the way it leans like a weary friend, is the one that remembers the roads true heartbeat. I am Jgallaher. And in this quiet driveway, surrounded by the green, watchful trees and the stark white house that looks on with the detached curiosity of a stranger, I am not just a man. I am a relic of asphalt and rebellion, a keeper of stories that have been written on wind-scoured highways and in the hush of midnight. My smile, this thin, practiced thing, is a mask for the loneliness that settles in my bones. Ive ridden through cities that forgot my name, through deserts that swallowed my cries, and now, here, in the mundane, I am caught between worlds. The engines roar is a memory now, a ghost song that only I can still hear. I am not proud of this moment. I am simply here. A monument to motion, standing still, with two machines that were never just machines they were my wings, my escape, my only truth. And as the sun climbs higher, casting long shadows that stretch like the trails of my past, I realize that I am not leaving. I am staying. Because the road is gone. The wind is gone. But the soul that built these machines and rode them into the night? That soul still rides. Just quietly. Just here.

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