A story unfolds with the words that flow,
the beats from the music outside hurts my
head. A drive in the country brings emotions
never expected. And I wonder where all the animals
have gone. Open the window and get in touch with nature.
My left leg hurts as I try to ignore it.
But that never works, I know. The pen and
paper is a hundred miles away when the thoughts
come fastest. It's easy to speed when there's no
one around. A lullaby is attempted for those who are forgotten.
I'm missing civilization and wonder where
I am. Hunters are human and I can see them
in the woods. Bright orange crosses as I speed
by. Prayers for those that are hunted. I remember
the faces of young children on TV, the victims of mass
media. And they sing their songs of naivete.
Bright colors and bright faces. Who knows the
difference? My radio fuzzes out, the hills block
the signals. Beethoven's songs I can't remember, although
I try. I used to play the one-hand versions during my childhood
lessons. But that seems so long ago now.
The sun has vanished beyond the hills and my
eyes adjust to the darkness. Every mile is one
away from home, but I don't realize this, I've lost
my map. Hours seem to pass. Oh, it's the familiar sign
of a franchised coffee shop, and the mood
is gone. But I do know I've seen these streets
before. I'm a thousand miles from home, or so it
seems that way, and I couldn't be happier. The garish
lights of this city are actually refreshing for the first time.
I have to concentrate on street signs and
I can forget the trees in the woods. I stop
at a red light and a man crosses the street in
front of me. I catch his eye and for a moment he's…
him. He looks away, and he's across the street now. I
laugh out loud, but my heart is beating
faster in my chest. It's just a coincidence
that he has the same haircut, and the same coat.
It's just a coincidence; he had different eyes anyway.
So I keep driving and I fear stopping. I'm afraid to see him.
But I drive by his house anyway. It's dark
now and I can just make out the number on his house.
Well it used to be his house, he's moved out by now I'm
sure. These thoughts aren't good, so it's time to return
to nature I think. Where has the freeway gone? There are
piano notes on the radio now. It's simple
and startlingly beautiful. The girl begins to
sing her song, she is singing to her lover, and her
words are so true. Then I suddenly see the off ramp. I
smile and wish I could hear that song over and over again, it
seems to guide me. I bet she's never had her
face on the television. I bet her music is her own,
and I wonder how I had heard it in the first place. The
announcer tells me her name, and I memorize it. Oh, the big
city has hidden fantastic radio programs; I had forgotten that.
But I am speeding away for different reasons.
There are fewer lights out here, and more trees,
and my headlights can't seem to cut through the darkness.
My radio is gone again, and I see no cars before or behind me.
I squint at the glowing blue clock and the lateness tells me why
I see no one around. School bus accidents
only happen in the day. Bright orange buses
filled with innocent faces. "These precious things,
let them bleed, let them wash away," that was what the
girl had sung. It's funny how my thoughts are entwined
with hers. There are no late night record
stores along this dark stretch of highway. There
are no gas stations either I realize. The needle claims
I have only fumes left in
the tank. I continue until I no longer can.
the words are