Fifteen days on the road and dreams filling in with U.S. Army trucks-- deuce and a half, ten ton fatigued monsters being prepped and sold to corporations to do some kind of mysterious labor in Guatemala. Color coded spec sheets shuffling around and I start to imagine trucks as people, agents, with a human sort of fate, condition. Mercenary or trafficked, I don't know. Hollowed out, silent, too expensive to own, and what for? So gratuitous for camping or any honest work, and that coming to light with red poppies and purple bluebells whirring by us on the highways, and a smell like basil and coca-cola everywhere. At home again, and sleeping alone always like a child, the sleeping alone feels like the disoriented dream, and remembering real instead the twelve states' bodies and trap of cold, wet open air, fire-surviving, brass band Broadway musical, Auburns, Cords, and Duesenbergs flashing down terrazzoed country routes, meat as a matter of fact, in some homemade version of love, and being given the unexpected gift of a pale pink bicycle forged specifically to suit only me and my purpose...