2004-09-21 - 8:24 p.m.
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4.0 Ounces to Freedom
You laugh.
You laugh a lot apparently.
Everytime one of those blue people walks past you, you laugh your ass off.
Fingers fly.
You seem jumpy and you are, but you're also calm and cool. You need to be. There's no time for rookie shit now.
The forest behind the car is terrible. It's atrocious. In fact, it stinks. Really bad too. And the whole thing is going to be laid to waste very soon.
Another bunch of green signs. Another handful of idiots shooting around like bonfire wisps. The hills weave like waves on water. The sun peaks and hides, sneaks around the tops. Not a single cloud in the sky, not a single drop of rain on the pavement.
The trees are all green and luscious. They are the most beautiful things you have seen in a long time. This is why you came all this way. These trees are fantastic and you shudder when you think of them.
Your hand surfs the tides of the wind passing by the window. Your hair does it's boogie to the motion of the air shooting from the window. The radio explodes and then is silent, then just quiet, then explodes again. Everytime the radio dies, a phone is picked up.
The sun falls like a man shot. It makes the horizon red like death and the musk of dusk clouds slink around it as the sun peers over at you in one last minute hurrah. The skies will not be as bright tonight. The stars will not come out like they did last night.
Soon, the corruption of concrete seeps in. The decay of images of rockfaces dribbling with water and widespread land is slow but noticable. You try desperately to remember what you have passed, try to hammer the images of the hills, the bluer skies, the cleaner airs - everything - into your skull, hopefully remaining there.
The blue men look sad. They cannot help. They are aghast at our kind and cannot find ways to solve the problems.
Their hands are tied.
These trees, though, they are still beautiful. Even down here. Even in this concrete mess, this blacktop vomit. These trees have remained amazing throughout the whole ride and when it's over, they will be even better. They will be home.
The stars open their cyclops eye one at a time. Through dark stretches of time too vast for us to truly grasp, their show hits Earth just in time for us to see it, their cosmic ballet reaches our shores for one evening only. Imagine the stars that shine bright as ever in the day that we never see. Imagine the dead stars that will shine one last time and be no more. What will the sky be then when our constellations and characters in the sky begin to fade like lightbulbs on old marquees? What will these speckled vagabonds of light do when they have passed us in their voyage and shoot out beyond us?
Where does all the starlight go to?
The crooked smile of the moon grins over the house and we pull up; the radio dies, the car dies, our phones go off, our minds go off. We are home.
These trees are beautiful. They are our salvation. They are freedom.
BMC
What did you just say? - What's he gonna say next?
