"What is art if not self-indulgence?" I'm paraphrasing Harlan Ellison here. Anyway... I fully believe that the closest I can get to a fully transcendental experience is a lengthy, overnight roadtrip by myself. Watching the miles dissipate through the early morning hours almost forces one to become their own Kilgore Trout and become "unstuck in time", the wandering mind snapping back and forth.

In this piece, I am placed back in November 1995, driving from California back home to Florida, after the failure of a relationship I thought would be eternal like starlight and as ephemeral as moondust. I still loved her. She would be dead seven years later.

Somewhere in New Mexico, it's 3 in the morning and I'm driving, framed by the milieu of this shattering experience, and my mind returns to the past and falls into the future. Trying to place things in context with past and future lovers: one I spurned, one who spurned me, and one which was built on mutual misdirection, lies, and forced desire.

Interstates is nothing but self-indulgence. But it's a hell of a road trip.