Tyler, I have not slept right since you stopped talking to me. "Do you need help?" Dry mouth is the only way to know that my medication is working.
I look at the states on an old National Geographic map that I found when we empied my
grandparent's house out. I try to remember how long it took to drive across each state. Arkansas -- well, I don't remember, because I drove it during the night without stopping. Not until the Oklahoma panhandle. In the desert, I saw some dirt-poor Cherokees shoveling red earth into the back of a decrepit pick-up truck. I hadn't stopped driving since I was at
Julie's. She had been more or less able to take care of me.
She called it a trip, like an acid trip, but also a driving trip. Alone, I guess lots of people go on road trips, but alone and through depression and insomnia -- Denver to the New Jersey shore without stopping for a night's rest, singing all up the California coast and seeing redwoods. Chasing heartache with heart-throb. Police searched my car three times. I should be dead.
Tyler, I thought you understood. Now I am considering that you might just be younger than me.