Old highway spools out towards the horizon. Endless, without destination, no beginning, no end. Now and then an occasional traveler, coming or going. Some lost, but all are wandering. And among them the ghosts of those who traveled this road before, a long time gone.

The sun is setting, it vibrates, paints the sky red. The anticipation of night. Portends lust, maybe love. A promise of danger. A night of tangled lovers, panting. Elsewhere a solitary figure on an empty street, walking. In some dark corners, violence, and the blood tastes like iron. Neon lights. Or firelight. In the distance, a screeching tire. Angry words and laughs. Moans and shouts. Somewhere, a lone shortwave radio. Somewhere else, just silence.

The desert wind is still warm. Smells of rock dust, blooms, smoke. Gasoline, liquor and wine. And perfume, or is that just you remembering?

Your motor rumbles. Headlights grope through the darkening sky, feeling for the road ahead. Tires rolling, rolling. And the warm light from the dash washes your face.

You reach over for the radio dial, and turn. Preachers in the wilderness. Turn. Spanish echoes frantically from across the border. Turn. Whispered confessions and lonely hearts weeping. Turn - and here, bleeding out from some tower far away, some music. Honest, raw, visceral, wrenching. A sweaty cocktail of joy and remorse, lust and loneliness, passion and pain. You pull back from the dial, you leave it there.

And you keep moving...

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