Your four lines of prose this Friday shall be about: the rest stop.
Also (if you drop the 'the') a great song by Matchbox Twenty.
Eyes struggling to stay open, shoulder muscles burning, nerves pinching together in my butt like the cheeks of a child in the presence of an overly affectionate aunt... it was definitely time to pull the truck over and have a rest.
And then, as if a highway god had been monitoring my thoughts, the headlights of my old Ford found the sign: Rest Stop 500m. I breathed a long, noisy sigh of relief and pulled off where the sign indicated as I eased off the gas, my foot taking its sweet time to transfer over to the brakes.
As the front of the truck smashed through the rotting wood railing mere inches from the edge of the highway and I hurtled towards the mass of jagged rocks two hundred feet below, I remembered much too late that this stretch of road belongs to Loki.