Creating magic on the page and in the world
It was cold, in the thirties. The road went by so quickly, along with the houses. At first, the buildings were blurs which seemed to never cease, people on people with no end in sight. But as he continued, there were more parks, the houses were shorter, the bright haze of city lights saw breaks, revealing the pink sky. He kept driving.
It was hours. The buildings were silos, farms, and large houses for hard working families. It was gorgeous. Cornfields were reduced to hardened brown lumps of fertilized soil, giving view for near a mile. Then, at midnight, when the pink haze was in the distance, far beyond what would matter, he laid down on the side of the road and looked up in the great nothing, into the void and the oblivion. Into the sparkling eyes of God. He smiled, bundled up in coat, scarf, and hat, and pondered the expanse of space and the glorious glitter of the stars without the noise of people and their need to light up the ground instead of paying homage to God.
