Three hundred miles northeast of Iowa, more or less, as the car drives. No babies are crying; there are no sounds at all. Nobody will admit it but the airport is closed. Nobody will admit it but the television’s wrong. The stars are furiously collapsing in the form of snowflakes, sending unprepared drivers cursing as they abandon slammed doors and begin the trudge through uncertain drift.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by Facebook,
starving hysterical naked.
There is no social media.
I ditched Neal Cassady on the streets of Denver, searching for his dad and legal marijuana, counting the ties that bind the rails.
The road ends where the rails converge. It ends with the snow on your ankles. Nobody will admit that it ends at all, but if you turn around it begins again.
Get out of there. Find another airport.