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I lie in bed but do not close my eyes, unwilling to lose even a moment to sleep. A dialect runs across my tongue, more western, more cowboy country than I remembered and everyone's name is Hun. We drive that same highway through the mountain pass and I never tire, always lose my breath when the valley lies at our feet. Home.

You say you are looking for meaning, say there must be something more to it than this and you aim to find out what. If you find out, I wish you'd tell me. These highways only lead to places I know.