Truth

I remember riding shot-gun in California. Radio blaring, as we speed down the 580. It could have been any day, during any year. The day would be so long and bright that silly things like stray bugs and wind blown hair didn't phase me. I'd stick my head out the window and face the breeze, letting it batter my face with whips of breath, my hair dancing like a palm tree caught in a hurricane, cheeks rippling and eyes reduced to coin slots. Ever try to breathe with the wind in your face at 80 mph? You can't quite grasp it, or even open your eyes to see it. Eventually you just have to swallow it gulping down air like water, it's the only way. I still don't know how something so emphatic can be so desperately refreshing.