black tire marks, a VW bug on fire, and a headless patch of fur on the side of the road... the highway has strange fashion sense, it sports scars like jewelry on its skin. old wrecks like a golden ring, traffic jams like a diamond necklace. i don’t like driving, but sometimes you need to move, with windows rolled down, a stack of cds in the passenger seat, and measure the distance from the things you miss in miles. i’d like to buy postcards of exit ramps (no need for monuments, palm trees, or beautiful models), simply a “thinking about you” printed somewhere, destinations unknown, no one knows where this goes, but we gotta find out.
these long rides, it's like my heart is on 4-wheel drive.