Wrighter XVII

Nights. Cold under stars shivering while reveling in the pure winter air. Warm a blanket pressing down on every inch of your skin, seeping in and filling to the tiniest nook with an oppressive comfort. Driving until ready to pass out an off ramp motel, bed of seat in car stopping and restlessness during sleep. Fog rolling in up the coast enveloping every couple into their own nebulous world, lonely travelers walking parting the mists to find a destination which doesn't exist until they're a few inches away. Warmth of gin and wine dancing to a song which played a long long time ago. Every repose and repast another step on a journey you're too afraid to end. Strangers sipping lattes as newspaper blows down another cookie cutter unique town, ubiquitous in its ambivalence towards true art and tortured souls. Homeless signs hanging on old fences brush up against $400 poorly painted cats gracefully akimbo in a cafe restroom. Everything new but nothing different. Like the billions of tiny rocks who dare to call themselves asphalt.