I check the gauges, make sure the gas tank is full. Roll the windows down, flip the radio on, and pull out of the driveway.


There's nothing like freedom to get you smiling. Nothing like a clear autumn day, a car, fresh air and sun. And it's Sunday, what more could I ask for?

Destination: Nowhere in particular.
I don't know where I am, and I don't really care. It's terrific. I feel like I can keep moving and never come back, days upon days of highway to highway radio surfing, miles of steelgrey freedom unfurling and streaming away.

I do this every now and then, whenever I'm home, can get Mom's car, get away. Because I always need to get away. The keys, a tape, and me lugging my thoughts out to a broader range of territory. The random turns, winding roads, the twisting convolutions of aimless cogitation.

The sheer joy of randomness and new sights; the completeness of no destination and wheels and life.

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