(blind run the southern lights)

My brain is the triumph of a thousand miles lost to laughter and cigarettes, new friends and ice cold beer. to the carolinas. to virginia. to maryland and the terrifying old woman inclined to peek through her window in the dead of a sunday night to watch us scramle with our bags to the murder motel's last available bed (though she belonged to alexandria).

To stale fireworks. to stained mementos. to the risque cafe and the long coming out that i am, sometimes, a fucking pussy when faced with a strange naked ass and a black cup of trucker coffee.

To the suck of disco. to the steve miller band. to rocking out at the right time with my flask held tight in my right hand and not a fucking car in sight for an hour except, of course, for the jesus truck that loomed close enough on our rearview to make us wonder if it was time to forge a hot ticket to salvation.

To horror shows we could call heart-wrenching even if the bloody snowday all but broke our backs with guffaws.

To warren. to michelle. to heather. to ira. to nina and the girl who wouldn't earn her tip (as greg put it).

To poppers and cheese sausage soup with killian's red for breakfast. to krispie kreme. to the q shack and all the waffle houses we passed on our way back to the inner harbor.

To cartoon memories, the lurid sigh over cherry pie and ice cream that drove poor rushin mad.

To occaquan. to twenty minute naps. to rest stops founded on frigid air and scatological revelry.

To the knowing that even though i'd come home broke, at the very least, we could say we made a frantic dash one more fucking time before we lose our lunatic to a picket fence on the other side of the earth (as far as we're concerned).

Fuckin' a right we did.