I am a screaming woman-child taking scissors to my hair and needles to my fingernails doing ninety-seven down I-80 and letting myself dissolve into the roar of the engine. These are the moments I am free. The road never softly calls me, it shackles my wrists to the steering wheel and demands that I listen, it burns my feet as they try to pace the quiet of my lonely apartment, it echoes in symphonic refrains against the back of my skull. My life was made for this, and someday I will be in that motel room in Nebraska smoking a cigarette and calming the vibrations in my bones so that I can sit at a typewriter and distill this mania into northern wind on the high plains.

10:06 pm  •  24 September 2012