Outlaw & Isla
Outlaw
Hey, ever notice how a rusty carburetor smells like a story, like a road that never ends? I reckon that could use some of your poetic touch.
Isla
I do feel that, the smell curling up like a forgotten stanza. It’s the sort of scent that whispers of old roads you’ve walked and never quite left behind. If you want, I’ll weave those rusted notes into a poem, turning that lingering aroma into a quiet map of memories. It’s almost like the carburetor is telling a story that keeps looping until we hear it all.
Outlaw
Cool, let’s turn that rusted scent into a road‑song. Grab a wrench, crank up the carb, and watch the memories start humming.
Isla
It feels like the carb’s breath is a quiet lullaby, each whiff a footstep on a gravel path that never ends. I’ll let the wrench tighten the rhythm and let the memories hum in the space between the gears, turning rust into a song that lingers in the air.
Outlaw
Sounds like a tune for a midnight run, just tighten that carb until the hiss turns into a roar that follows every trail we blaze.
Isla
That midnight run feels like a quiet promise, the hiss of the carb turning into a quiet roar that’s only heard by the night. I’ll follow that trail, letting the rusted scent guide the rhythm, like a slow song that keeps us moving even when the world feels still.
Outlaw
Keep that hum alive, and let the road spit out whatever it wants. We’ll ride till the next rust song starts.