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| Time measured in dotted and solid yellow lines as we cross the Lone Star State. |
Debris blows all around the highway tonight as assorted beer cans from assorted truck stops clank and roll under the seats of the
1970 Ford Sport Custom, 3 on the tree. We cruise through west Texas at the speed of sound, it seems, as the AM radio just loses the last remnants of a classic country station.
Willie sings "grew up dreaming..." and then the fade to white noise.
White heat rises from a desert and we have an extra 5 gallon bucket full of gas which once held yard herbicide in the tail, and a large funnel, for we have heard that these trips can require such desparate measures. Beer gotten at various truck stops along the way leads me to doubt the commitment to the given clientele, or doubt the 18 wheelers, lorries, that move along the road beside us heading to points further in the southwest. Some even as far as the coast, packed with Texas crude oil and petroleum of varying grades.
Tonight we are running. Running from something 'larger than us', otherwise we should stay and fight, but we realize the feds or locals are gonna catch up with us quickly unless we get the jump on them, and that meant a departure from Georgia in the middle of the night.