A city desk, buried in paperwork with a screen blasting information into her eyes. A quiet lunch in a crowded courtyard under the only tree. The wind trembles its leaves and whispers into her ear, "Go west."
Home to bland, white walls and another screen taunting her with images of faraway places. Dinner from a box and a bag, then to bed. Through her open window comes the song of sirens and traffic in the night, but the breeze slips in and speaks to her in dreams, "Go west."
Another day, the same but rain. Lunch at her desk with the rain pattering against the window, gowestgowestgowestgowestgowest.
That night she dreams of a land that goes on forever without skyscrapers blocking the light of the sun, and of a chasm in the earth too deep and beautiful to comprehend.
Another day comes, but the car takes a different turn on the way to the desk. Day turns to night, then to day once more. She drives, she sleeps, she marvels at the way the cities give way to suburbs and suburbs give way to towns and towns give way to majestic emptiness.
Somewhere along a deserted highway she pulls the car over to the dusty edge of the road. Her eyes on a distant horizon with a setting sun, she begins to walk. Every step she takes echoes across the hard-packed earth and between the towers of rock. West.
See you in July, writing cowboys.
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