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Lies, ____. _______ ___ is not "hookers and blow," it's a cute little tourist town with a SEVENTY DOLLAR MOTEL. Bastard.


I get this feeling, when I look at my bike, when I think about camping out and keeping rolling, I get this feeling that I'm running away. Running away from what I'm supposed to do. But I know you're busy, and besides, who am I to come in and dictate...

Damn it! What am I supposed to do?!

Phew...

I love you, and I'm not in control. And I'm happier than I've ever been, as if the string of days that improved each day I knew you three years ago had steadily continued since then.


Apparently you have to hold down the shutter switch on the camera for like, 5 hours. And I haven't been that patient since I first crossed the _______ state line. Well. Neither my brain, nor this electric box can carry the particular radiance you generate. We just fumble with it until the photo gets all creased.


Around about the time I sped past that cop, I was contemplating the land of the Navajo. It seems like it's okay, but also that it doesn't really care what the hell you think, and doesn't need any of your help. Which I guess makes it a strong land, but, man, I hate running off just cause you lose. Even if society decides against me, for whatever reason, I won't get uppity and say it's all trash. I'm no Napoleon; I won't conquer Europe or go sit on my rock.