4-13-94 Begeen.

     Rolling, sweating pavement; black tar weighing for miles on a dry crust of Earth; rolling, rolling, falling away to shallow and wide valleys, uninteresting, rehearsed a million times by millions, again the tree goes by, perhaps a pink elephant.  The truth will set you free two out of three, this being the third; where the truth was this road, its other side planted as the beginning, steady and awaiting, the whole thing one ghastly monotony, painful and trying to the traveler.

     All forms of comforting were tried in each and every vehicle that sped along.  But none could delete the truth, the third truth.  Music was out of place, attempting to theme something, bare to the bone, surrounded by the nothing.  Conversation was never as lengthy as the miles nor the still time between them.  And mind alteration, altercution, or substitution, though soothing to some and purposeful to those others, still would not erase enough of that constant of views, that lack of substance.

     And so it went one day, the variation in the vehicles alone, their operators hidden from awareness by the clogging lack of interest.  Flashing the sun back to the dark gray clouds beside it, the metal demons flew before one another into the zero.