When I blur away the countryside, 65 miles per hour shuttling through the Shenandoah Valley, everything feels right again. There’s something potent about living on the fringes of things. From the backseat window I reduce the world to color, lines of dairy cows merely black and white brushstrokes decorating a living green canvas, all scenery rushing before my eyes converted to watercolor. It’s much safer to inhabit a place like this. No one has anything to say, nothing to purge nor wield. In this place no language is necessary, for there is no real life here, only pigments colliding with loose shapes, edges bending and lacking, my own dizzy mayhem. How I adore this incomprehensible movement. Here the world spills into itself. No one stops it from doing so. Today I’m heading home and it feels right. I’ve got The Four Seasons’ “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” melting my brain to candle wax, daydreams as pliable as modeling clay, and cumulus clouds hanging above me as unapologetic as ever, specially designed for getting lost in.