Logan kicked up the motorcycle, relishing in the roarof the engine, the feel of the metal vibrating under his hands, the scent of the gravel and soil kicked up under the wheels. He flexed his hands against the textured rubber of the handlebars, and he let his eyes slip shut, just for a second.
Fire is an emotion, he decided. Rage and fire taste the same in the mind. He let go of the handles, just for a second, and let himself veer off the road until the blare of a truck horn made him grab on again and gain control over the bike and over himself. He let out a long sigh, a blow of air that hit him in his own face as he sped along. He forced himself to lose himself; his memories of Jean, of the mansion, of Japan, all of it. He kept his eyes open, but he kept his mind carefully blank, and he flew down the highway.
The trees blew past in a blur of color, the sky a mess of spilled paints, the road a challenge waiting to be accepted. He exhaled slowly, and sped up, leaving himself somewhere far behind him.