i drove across

colorado stopping every 20 minutes at any pull off, any shoulder in the road i could find in order to write everything down. under that sky and between those mountains every phrase seemed critical. i was alone. writing was a way of telling when i had no one to say it to. it felt like if i was going to simply drive through the valleys and down

those mountains every phrase seemed critical. i was alone. writing was a way of telling when i had no one to say it to. if i had simply driven in the valleys and down the hills in third gear i would have been ripping an experience from the land outside my window numbly. i didn't know i was

practicing, or maybe i did, and that was why i cried. i cried because the need for you was so strong. the place and the solitude demanded that

and the solitude demanded that i build something for myself but i was sure that necessitated breaking down what i had with you. that was our problem. i drove across the state frantic, frenzied, small, tiny and getting tinier in my car so alone. i was driving towards you. i was getting closer to me.

the miles-long hills in third gear without making note of

the miles-long hills in third gear without making note of every last billboard, every fleshy tourist changing every last flat tire, every rock and every road name, every thought and every angle it clocked in at