Interstate Scene 10: They say evolution occurs most rapidly in body parts that attract lovers and frighten rivals.
This morning I fed a robot a few sentences from the novel I’m writing, and it generated some startlingly accurate pictures.
I sneeze whenever I glance at the sun, which I’ve always taken as proof I am a night owl.
Interstate Scene 9: Maps of the Arctic give me vertigo. All that blank bright land feels like leaping off a rooftop.
Interstate Scene 8: I scroll down the dial in search of the midnight call-in shows, those carrier waves of national rumor and patchwork theory.
Interstate Scene 7: Headlights and taillights shimmered, their drivers hopped up on coffee and talk radio.
Interstate Scene 6: It was a run-down joint where time stood still and probably slid backward.
Interstate Scene 5: The desert’s silence was hell on my tinnitus.
Interstate Scene 4: Lose enough faith, and you might forget how to live.
Interstate Scene 3: Some Americans like to tie a pair of shoes together and toss them at a power line or a tree branch until they catch and hang.
Interstate Scene 2: When she was a little girl, she would watch the darkness in her bedroom.
Interstate Scene 1: Maybe you’ve heard the stories, the baroque theories on late-night radio or the soliloquies of sunburnt men who mutter at the traffic.
This journal might become a halfway house for homeless paragraphs from the stories I’m writing.
The television followed this up with a special report about dogs overdosing on their owners’ drugs.
You can never see further than your headlights: this old slice of trucker philosophy makes more sense to me with each passing year.
