The road turns to slow sweeps and sincere flurries, the attention always wanted one thought over, the world so stubborn and in the way. You watch for trouble and read the signs, left to drift in this corridor of fraught notions and frayed nerve. The road drives the rhythm, soon you sing and sway. Here so thick in the skin of e moment, somewhere so very far in the story of your heart.
It is first gleaned from some crushed horizon, the embankment a gray slab silhouette glowering over the interstate. These bleak reminders of the bones that gird,our glittering worlds. The words to the song lost in that memory, the singing that lingering of day despite the night. Then the whole thing flickers, the lights they come alive. Piercing through the rearview, shimmering through the hills. The exchange of brightness a change in inferences, the dialect a gradient of some flavorful shade. You spark the incantation as you shift between these worlds.
Home is always another moment. Home is the faith of skipping stones. The long crowded crawl passing tentative exits. The strange dislocation of your will captured by the tide. The ritual a kind of amends made out of rocks and maps, the road that snakes and crosses. The traffic that can not settle, the star that never sets. You glide amid these seething masses, steel and glass and gathering mass. The path always crafted from the edges of disaster. The destination always felt in its ebb and flow.