That's the bit I don't like frankly, the bending road ways bisected by white lines like imperial notice of eviction, "out ya go into transit like everyone else." If escape were a thing merely of finding the right road and taking it our only hurdle would be traffic.
But in the circuitous world of travel by committee and love by numbers the first issue is naming a destination. What end point would satisfy the requisite sensation of freedom?
And let's hope its not some hippie-dippie transcendental oblivion. I'm talking about cluster bombs of rapture, the excess of enumerable joys, not unspeakable rest on the cusp of nirvana. You can keep
your oblivion, I want to play.
So with that in mind I've scrounged up a deep green pith helmet, chased out the family of chinese boll weevils living in it, gathered up my collection of commemorative thumbnails sketches, lifted my life
upon my back and bundled it all into my rotary motor bath tub and set out to find a northwest passage
of sorts through the trendy shopping malls and commercial districts, a city to found on the other side
of the billboard horizon.
That's the plan as we motor above the mainland and unwrap our candy bars, letting the Reese's wrappers float down to the seashore, "I wrote, 'save me,' on that one." We have been kidnapped after all. How else to explain our arrival on a plane of existence we have no prior investment in.
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