a mystical drive. a storm hit overnight, and fine snow dust was swirling across the road. i'd broken my camera the day before, and so was recording the final two days of my trip with a disposable. that road was so lonesome, so isolated. it was beautiful, but i was glad to leave.
....
it's late, and i'm alone. i'll go outside and unplug the christmas lights in a moment, lock the door, and climb in bed to read about cleopatra and anthony. i wonder if i'll dream about that cold, stormy road when i close my eyes to sleep. i wonder if i'll relive the awe, fear, thrill, giddiness of driving alone through a storm, with only music and a map to direct my wanderings. it would have eased me to have someone there with me, to sit quietly by as the grainy snow gathered and swept across my view, draping the road in gauze then wiping it clean. i remember one ribbon of black wet road, plastered to the wall of a canyon like a gash in the earth. the road curved and wound, hurtling down until it reached the plain, and a town. it's strange how a group of strangers can somehow make you feel more alone than an empty car and an empty road, with nothing there before you.
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