Traveling man.

My creative flow always pricks up its ears during a long journey. The sights and sounds and changing shifting landscape make me feel bold and declarative and full of strange new adjectives; I feel the need to create to urge to experiment.

Tiger’s the same way. I’m writing this in a notebook, which I purchased at the last rest stop. Tiger insisted upon picking up a notebook and pen, too, and he’s drawing as I’m writing.

I ask him, “Don’t the bumps make it hard to draw?”

“They actually make it easier, I think,” he replies, intent on sketching out a drawing of Charizod.

Not so me. My writing looks like hieroglyphics, spastic scrawls that barely resemble English. I hope I can read this later on. My hand tenses up, the tendons in my fingers complain over the repetitive physical exertion.

I ask Corb, “Can you driver flatter?”



Farm country in New York. Sheer farmland for hours and hours, broken up, for stretches, by city lights.

Collapsing abandoned farmhouses that reflect a life no longer lived.

Beams of light poke through billowing clouds like a sword through a stone.

Corb points out a village around Amsterdam, New York—isn’t that pretty, he asks?

I look to my right and my gaze focuses upon a tired store that has the words “FOWNES” lit up in bright red letters. But I’m not certain what he’s referring to.

“Show me what you’re looking at,” I say.

“That. The village.”

“Fownes,” I say.

He frowns. “You don’t care,” he says.

I grin. “No, no, I do. I just think it would be great to be lost in Fownes.”

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