I like Fridays. I'm in line with the acronym TGIF. Today has lasted longer than a Friday should. Perhaps I'm showing my immaturity. I'd love to have accepted that the length of a day is no different, but I am Einstein's disciple as I share his birthday. Everything, therefore, is relative.
Friday falls in the realm of everything.
Everything falls in the realm of Friday.
Today, I have gone from fire to rain. From rain to shine. From shine to dark. Road trips have a way with words. They can tell you their stories. They will sing you to sleep.
In Japan, certain back country roads are grooved in such a way that music spins itself from the wheel wells when cars travel at just the right speed. The roads record your stories in song.
Kansas sounds like a lullaby with the melody of gentle grain. Nebraska roads unfold like carefully orchestrated chord progressions. Colorado streets change pitch at awkward moments.
Today, New Mexico drove forward. It sung the song of rain, a heavy metal drum beat drowned out by poetry. Today, New Mexico screamed. This morning, Colorado wrote a ballad underneath our tires. Today, Colorado skies finally cried, and thousands breathed out catharsis in a crescendo of tears. Today, our tires flew forward over borders, under bridges, through wide open land soaked in sun.
Tonight, poets will sing their road songs. They will stretch their arms out like highways and pluck staccatoed melodies from their scars to show how far they've come and how far they've yet to go.
Thousands of songs have been composed in the three-quarter mile stretch of the road on which I grew up.
I can't imagine how many will find themselves written in dusty journals at the end of the 400 mile song we composed today.
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