When staring into space, it's likely that I'm recreating a particular ride,
watching Greco-Cascadian pillars cross my periphery. Between sacred, ancient cement we are afforded a clear view of the mountain range. Climbing the pass, a damp constellation snotrag held over my mouth and nose, warring against tunnel fumes & dehydration. My companion sings a gorgeous Polish song in a still car on a quiet night. We ride as something more than witness to the full moon outshining San Francisco, approaching the water and refracting, braiding sections of steel frame from the bay bridge trestle we roll accross, and as we do a final pathway for the beam is found through the open door, projected through my empty brown glass 40 on to the boxcar floor.
Fursaxa - Karma
Spring Pipinis
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