moonlight like a dropcloth over the landscape blurring the shapes and throwing deep shadows
don't look at the clock because it tells lies saying you're almost there when you'll never
arrive. here in the high desert the roads flow on, Möbius strips of tar over the scrub bushes
your foot pushes a little harder on the pedal weighed down with the distance you've driven
and the emptiness ahead, valleys of pure void with no well of light to welcome you home