Your head is all song lyrics, all steady beats and predictable key changes, a breath aligned to order. A desert sun appears above the valley, reminds you of 30 years in its folds. Thirty years of warm skin and just the slightest taste of freedom always on the tip of your tongue. You trace directions over road maps, see your wheels slide across America, wonder if it's a swansong or a vow renewal. Sometimes these things aren't apparent until firmly in the rearview mirror.
America, are you willing to carry us over the burning coals, or will we turn to ashes underneath the weight of your love?
America, I'm addressing you.
I'm talking to myself
again.
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