January 1, 2005

Speeding through the night, like I'm stealing it. The reddish hue of
unnamed towns, full of unknown people and situations. Off ramps offer
salvation to the loneliness and pain from the Godless pavement; on
ramps unforgiving from unyielding cars rushing to their own private
nothingness. Headlights make ghosts of us all. . . . Drivers no longer
exist in the space between incoming and passing. Only lights and a
brief glimpse of identity on an aluminum plate the difference between
life and lifeless narrows . . . until life is reduced to nothing in the
eyes of the holy and true believers.