we're copying the bible at the end of the universe, but it's been either reduced or expanded to millions of tiny fragments of plastic lost along the side of innumerable highways.

a friend says that the mountains and asphalt in his home town smell and crack like the mountains in this new place to which i've managed to escape three times now. the same place sergio leone dreamed his hollywood viligance (his first film was stolen from kurosawa), and the pixies sang the crash of a traveler (and further appropriations staking claims of some 'the american west'), and upon which many forms the projective fantasies of 20c travel converge upon, most specifically roads, rails, and the spiritual