the sign at the coffee counter at the gas station says 25 hours, and i guess that's right because that's what they're really selling. we'll be in big trouble the day they stop providing us with such good service.
the dark, smooth highways in the early hours, with their visible gusts of dust and icy winds blowing across the high beams, slide beneath us in the quiet of the engine's low rumble, the heat blowing sleep into our faces and the tinny electric nothings of the local station's muzak lulling us goodbye.
the trunk is full of gear we think we need and we've got nothing left to say to one another. it's a long drive into the future with nowhere else to go, and we'll just keep on riding until the gas runs out and the motels stop accepting our credit cards. maybe then we'll just stop, maybe then it'll be time to pull out a pack of cigarettes, draw deeply and sigh and look around a bit to see where all that civilization went.