200 miles passed, and 200 to go.
Just enough gas to hit the next nowhere town
And drink, drink up to your fill.
It’s a bright day, and when you stop
The wind is a brisk friend whipping excitedly around your legs,
Waking you up, wondering if you remember it.

Sure. You remember long days of walking,
Merciless weather drumming the knowledge
That all you are is meat, and all you will ever be;
Or your bones do, your genes,
Passed down Lamarckian from ages past.
You let your friend go,
Knowing it could once again be foe.

Each waystation passes like clouds in the night,
Mile after mile after endless mile.
Your car eats them up with the crankiest purr,
Hungering, hungering ever for more.

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