(no subject)
we started the day off early, driving through the maze of canyons that make up this desolate state. the sun shone directly overhead, and everything looked so sterile. I rode shotgun, puffing away at a joint i haplessly rolled to pass the time. The seat was too familiar. the curves of the dashboard. The white noise in between ham radio stations. And everything outside was dead. it aggravated me, the way the plants all looked the same, the way the rocks jutted out from the horizon, ripping the sun in half. it was all orange.
I awoke to a sputtering neon sign, declaring to the few inhabitants that managed to build themselves homestead on this barren land that they could still indeed get key lime pie for a buck twenty-five a slice. 24 hours a day.
It was my turn to drive. i drove with the windows down. the air whistled by, sometimes forcing its way through my sweaty hair. it blew my bangs out of my eyes, at least. inside the glove compartment we had a few grams of coke; something we brought along to help enjoy the drive a little more. I cut a line on the arm rest and took my foot off the accelerator. Steadied the wheel. Inhaled. I slammed my foot on the pedal, felt the coke rushing through me. I could hear my heart beat, I could count every drop of sweat on my brow.
We didnt even know where we were going. The trip had started out as just that, a trip. We’d been on a combination of LSD, Mescaline, coke, and pot for at least 5 days. Sitting in the parking lot of a grocery store, we made the decision to leave. And so we drove. Out of town. Out of the county. Out of the state. We just went west, always towards the setting sun.
We tripped peyote under a canyon. The rocks were red and sculpted, still smooth from the millions of years of water that shaped them. I’d never felt so natural. I vomited a few times, watched my vision slowly distort. The rocks began to circle around me. They told me the stories of the people that once called the place home. They told me about wars and death and victory and change. And they hated it just as much as I did.
No one lives here anymore.
I awoke to a sputtering neon sign, declaring to the few inhabitants that managed to build themselves homestead on this barren land that they could still indeed get key lime pie for a buck twenty-five a slice. 24 hours a day.
It was my turn to drive. i drove with the windows down. the air whistled by, sometimes forcing its way through my sweaty hair. it blew my bangs out of my eyes, at least. inside the glove compartment we had a few grams of coke; something we brought along to help enjoy the drive a little more. I cut a line on the arm rest and took my foot off the accelerator. Steadied the wheel. Inhaled. I slammed my foot on the pedal, felt the coke rushing through me. I could hear my heart beat, I could count every drop of sweat on my brow.
We didnt even know where we were going. The trip had started out as just that, a trip. We’d been on a combination of LSD, Mescaline, coke, and pot for at least 5 days. Sitting in the parking lot of a grocery store, we made the decision to leave. And so we drove. Out of town. Out of the county. Out of the state. We just went west, always towards the setting sun.
We tripped peyote under a canyon. The rocks were red and sculpted, still smooth from the millions of years of water that shaped them. I’d never felt so natural. I vomited a few times, watched my vision slowly distort. The rocks began to circle around me. They told me the stories of the people that once called the place home. They told me about wars and death and victory and change. And they hated it just as much as I did.
No one lives here anymore.