The road stretches north for miles, only ending where it meets the sky and seems to drop off into nothingness. Nothingness. We are surrounded by nothing and everything. It's the kind of scenery that un-anchors me, leaving me floating somewhere at the back of my skull, while at the same time it rushes towards me with all the power and grace of a well-established forest. It's the kind of scenery that makes it okay to think these words.
We pass city limit signs for places small enough to claim the "Mighty Midgets" as their hometown mascots without anyone really caring. Places where ruffed grouse (Grouses? Groose?) come a dime a dozen. We imagine the people who live in these places fall into one of two camps: those who wear socks under their sandals and those who wear socks under their lace-up boots.
When I first found out the slogan was "Nobody doesn't like Sara Lee" I got upset. I always thought it was "Nobody does it like Sara Lee." I don't know why I remember that now. The pause between conversation topics grows to a clean break of silence separating declarations of side roads with funny names. Kumdinger Drive. Cutoff Road, which would be funnier if there was a bar somewhere along it. Most likely there is.
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