Somehow roadtrips always become journeys into the subconscious. Stories roll along the miles of driving until they're smooth as myths. People become archetypal, signposts / secret witches / forest friends. There's that feeling of driving over a mental landscape, small internalities magnified through still eyes. If not alone, strange frictions can emerge between these annexing silences. There's always something going on in the periphery, a tension on the shoulder. Signs flash, surreally readable, and after rolling their sounds around a few times you've forgotten what they meant. Reminiscence blurs into speculation like saccades along the landscape. The future always further ahead, no matter one's speed. The past indistinctly roaring behind one's head. A series of rapid turns brings excitement followed by determination. The sense that out there everything has changed, but in some way that's not visible when one stops to look around.