Jim Morrison once wrote of a lost section of highway, curling and bending through hollows and ravines, in the twisting paths midst barren desert mountains. Far beyond twisted than the highway man, lying in wait further ahead.
Yet in my dreams... so beautiful, breathtaking. When we come out of the blind untrustworthy turnings... those hills yield their grasp to unraveling open road.
Now... two lanes, laid bare as with a ruler. You cannot see any ending ahead, nor the beginning of your traveling in hindsight (rear view).
That's the best way: smoothed 66, vacant and beckoning you onward, the hazardous moments caught with plentiful time to prepare. Even so, the hours lie ahead: hazy-desolate. You come to the straight away, gazing for miles 360° (pure, bare-bones, and fundamental).
Be grateful then. Your dear vagabond, this tale imbued of esteemed moment, presented by gracious nature. My penning conveys only a fragmented reflection of the heartache consoling. A knowing of solace is meant to be savored, and held inside as if... gone too soon.