Into the Desert

Give me the road, like an open hand, that I might trace its lifelines along the length of my own, forgetting that we are not the same, but maybe we are, because every thing is a jumble of molecules and particules, and who knows whether tomorrow will come, and what does that mean anyway?

You see a lot of beautiful stuff out here, alone.  The landscape so flat and naked, inviting and unpretentious.  I look out over the arc of my steering wheel, transfixed by the sheer nothingness in front of me.

Then there's a little girl smoking a cigarette by the side of the road.  A pick-up truck pulls over, and they ride off into the sunset.  The trucks and the cigarettes and the paved highways simmering in the slanting evening sun, who's tried so desperately to make everything explode.  He worked all day to heat the Earth to its boiling point, but night is drawing his power from him, like a whisper, or a kiss on the ear.

And the Moon hastens the revelers of the night, who emerge like children into the dewy dusk, the sweat of day finally evaporating, and they shout and laugh with glee, saying, we waited all day for this!