There is a stretch of road somewhere in Northern Idaho that sounds like this:



There are magpies that swoop fast and low over the highway, skimming barely above the black and yellow. a clear-grey river courses alongside, sometimes hiding behind the gorgeously steep and rocky cliffs that pop up now and again... If it is late enough in the year, a dusting of white snow covers the terrain and the sun shines richly through the cloudy sky, filling the air with soft, cold, crystalline light. You could drive forever and not see another human being– just the birds, the forever of birds.


But, eventually, you will find a turn-off, a crossroads, and then an old gas station. it sits on the corner of a great, wide expanse of land, stretching as far as your eye can see in all directions. There are black specks in the snow that almost look like ash. The snow sparkles in drifts and dunes, and pieces of charred wood lay about.
i owe the proprietor here a penny, from when i was a small child. Someday i hope to pay him back. i will get there. i need to see it all again; i am drawn to it like the forever self-immolating moth. it needs me, and i know that i need it.