There is no mystery. The chill settles in, everything painted in shades of gray. The cold air, the hills swallowed by the fog, the asphalt and concrete and sky all painted the same. Traffic lulls and speeds, it gasps and swoons. This arms race retinue of bigger and bulkier, every lane almost overflowing with steel and plastic and ire. This collision in antecedence, this awaiting tragic turn. Nothing here forgives.
The hours seem to slow, drowning in these strings and diamonds. The clock seems broken, counting for so little so long. Every pastime swaddled in this fog that will not burn away, this lingering air of coiled vapor and skinned ghosts. Time rides this tide of burning oil and suspended dreams, each day made from the last one's scraps. We wait in a blur of speed and stillness, our destination ever further as the distances thin.
It is all mystery. I write in snips and stitches, this dissembling my only certain act of faith. I write in sad dull circles, always turning away from some reason, towards some missing point. Guitar and mandolin, turntable and fader, songs are everywhere. Fog in the ditch and birds on the wire, it is all music that I am missing. This ritual of one road, driven twice. This rite of abundant forgiveness, rife with crime.