Now driving on something like an ancient logging road, I for the first time begin to wonder where I'm actually going. Thoughts of finding a spot to write have long since left my head. I'm just driving, as hard east as I can. The car jolts and heaves as it rolls over holes and valleys, branches and large rocks. The radio fuzz is soft and surrounding, like holding seashells to both ears.
What comes after the logging road ends? In fact it already has. The ground in front of me is wild and untamed, grass and bushes and protruding mountain rock, but somehow, I keep driving. The ground is somehow just flat enough that my white 94 Chevy Cavalier with bad CV joints and no hubcaps continues to advance.