At some point, you vanish in the corrugated destinations of tires. You forget your fragility, and just move on. Freeway signs become indications of hope. Clouds of any form shape the weather in your prayers. If you allow it, memories huddle in those broken lines in the middle of the road, as though they want to straighten your vision of what might. You feel you don't care. But you do. You see mountains rising in their contours. You see these in your peripheral vision, that place where things don't want to vanish, but remain as blurs, the kind that softens the saturations in your reality.
