From the Journal: Tuscan to El Paso

A car full of slumber, incessous in movement; residue of mountains penetrating the landscape and the soundtrack: impecible, beautiful, sometimes as soft as a whisper, often and usually, roaring, screaming-wind invading, memories in the making. That's what road trips are. Destination, irralevent. It's here then it's gone, and what will have been taken, too numerous to bgein, I hope, to reflect upon; the journey, inescapable refernces I discover, let be realised, give forgotten reasons due exaltations. Outside my window a wind glidder soars the open sky, descending to the ground, how relevant the co-existence, how unfortunate his descention is inevitable and his soaring, momentarily lived. That's what experiences are: endings with beginnings, it's contigents the substance, it's lessons the composition, it's memoirs the foundation. I'm creating. I'm remembering. I'm drawing my hopes and dreams in the silver lining of clouds, throwing rainbows into a wishing well, and tossing invisible kisses to shooting stars in the silent night. I'm stopping. There is a sign, it reads, "Pecans, Walnuts, and Wine, exit now".