The road is a process. It remains entirely unsame throughout its life, after which it is shaved off and used to keep the dishes quiet. Even a single second after the bitumen lorries have left, it is different. The chemical-smoke that worms off of it contains neat shelves of atoms, and in being different, it is hard to focus on the material. When I drive along it I see only the trees surrounding it, the bridges crossing it, and the personalised machinery using it; never the road. The road is a process.
Machinery can become filthy without human aid. This is not the prevailing opinion, but it is true. The road is the proof. No humans walk there, apart from when wrapped in evolutionary warning dyes to make of themselves sufficiently important to avoid death. Sometimes the lost or stranded are forced to wait, fearful of the wind that changes, always changes. They are quickly shuttled off, trying to forget the cold, and the noise, and the choking air. There is no hint of man here. He left with the bitumen lorries, and took his skin cells and eyelashes with him. There is no coating of man. And yet black films collect.
It is a natural process, shaped by the switchbacked throat that breathes up and down from where all the air is. You may see it in the sea, in the woods and by the rivers, wherever you live. Some things are swept along by the air. Others are not. The things that are swept along do not remain homogenous, they catch their slightest utilities on the claws of others, are knotted, and come to halt, the air trying to reclaim them. And still the cars come, and scratch themselves, and a matte-black dust settles over everything.
I have seen this more and more since I became a driver. Strange objects all coated the same, washed against the central reservation, wind-shoved between the rails of a pedestrian bridge. Bottle caps mixed with flat meat, hubcaps becoming carbonised and petrified with snack packets, toddler toys, cigarettes, apple cores, faulty radios, dustings of chocolate yoghurt biscuit pots, forming fungus that can make no roots and so is mobile, swept along until exhaustion or underpasses give them a little bit of peace.
Sometimes roadkill will be fresh, and it seems that lack of blood lets light, artificial or stellar, illuminate the interior and give the feathers or fur or puckered skin a lantern quality. This will not last. The throat gulps eternally, and the black cells come, filming everything and wearing down the catch until it drifts off again, and plasters the rear ends of vans and provides someone somewhere to write and draw pictures. This will only happen when they are drunk; they often will not wash their hands before they next eat, and do not know what they are coated in.
I knew somebody who wanted to walk the entirety of the M25 on the hard shoulder. I now imagine him treading slowly on, each passing vehicle stealing a infinitesimal part of him, until by the end of his journey his edges are rounded, and he does not know how close he came to becoming part of the black film, the sample of pheasant and badger and polyurethene, that moves along those roads where humans no longer go without a tabard and a cone.