In September I drove home alone from the Texas Panhandle. Driving in a desolate landscape has always brought me a strange peace. On this drive I listened to fifteen years of music I had collected, and as I moved through these mesas and dry creeks I have memorized after years of making this trek, it was as if the music synced up with the landscape and the shapes of both melody and terrain became the same fabric of some great weaving that extended beyond me into infinity. I was just this one fiber, one beautiful, anonymous strain of violin or cello.
As I am running I feel the edges of my being dissolving into the infinite space that "tastes of us, then".