Wednesday, July 31, 2013
I've driven this drive before. I am somewhere else, leaving or going to someone warm in bed. It can be night or morning. I drive through the comfort of the mountains. I wear a red wool turtleneck, with my hand up feeling the cold of the window, stir crazy in the car and ready to get out. I blink my eyes to stay awake, and remember other drives. The snow and trees a dotted swiss blanketing the shallow hills. They never look like proper mountains to me. Tonight it's pines and palm trees, and the hills are even tamer. It's the silence that does it; the silence makes every road any road. I should turn the radio back on.