A drive is occasionally more than that. A drive is an attempt. An attempt to do something new and different. An attempt to do something differently. Something new. An attempt to be seen by eyes by which you wish to be watched. A drive is a bit more than an exercise. It isn’t just pulling a wheel like a weight. It isn’t just the curl of the heel of your hand as it fits on the shift. A drive is a bit more than dodging lights and rabbits. Drives are a bit more than keeping a straight keel. Driving isn’t boating. You don’t drive into the big wind like a wave; you drive where you are going. No matter what. If you’re really trying to go there.

/

The unexpected appearance of the sun at its most fierce shade of archimedian orange, directly ahead, while dusk was changing and fall was coming, blinded me. We didn’t know. We would have hit a reef if boating. We didn’t know the sun’s cycles, where it went. It disrupted the radio but we were driving West towards the ocean. Towards everything and we knew where we were going. At that moment, out of Denver. All the highways that could exist had signs. Billboards. Even there, sure: There were signs for exits for revisited destinations and the billboards beckoned, if not full heartedly, for you to stop in. Buy things. Remedy the emptiness over why you had stopped there in the first place. We knew. We didn’t stop; a momentary shriek of static from the radio, solar flares no doubt, sang us blind down the highway until the sun slid back behind a sign. 120 miles per hour. When the sun emerged again i stole a quick glance and fell blissfully again into blindness.

/

A drive doesn’t if mind we want to see the light of day. Even to deliver one heavy bucket of of one hello. One heavy good day. Just to say something. Which is why we drive at night sometimes.