2001-02-23 || 09:24

|| eighty ||

there was a stretch of highway in nevada blanketed in snow that had resigned itself to the gray of the sky- it was infused with it, saturated. dormant because it couldn't breathe that gray anymore. the matted grass under the snow had died in a quiet slow way, bloated with water and cold and gray. all color had bled from the vegetation and minerals in the soil. there were no animals because they could sense the heaviness of that place. i pressed my head to the glass of the window and watched it fly by, imagined truck drivers driving this stretch and rolling up their windows when they got to that point. because the air was different. the horizon had been erased because the air was so heavy there. and the gray had its way of seeping into the cab of trucks, into the mechanical heat of luxury cars and greyhound buses, so the truck drivers armed themselves with music and caffeine pills. they talked to themselves or whistled. utilizing the defenses reserved for passing massive cemeteries.

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