Dead Highway

A car just flew by, not even slowing down. It was not quite the desert, but almost. Hot as Hell. I was stranded.

I would like to say a girl dumped me out of her convertible, and then threw my guitar. I would like to say I jumped out of a van and said “Leave without me” to some boring people. I would like to say my car broke down. I would like to say I was hitchhiking. But I cannot say that. No, none of that.

The sun was as high as the sun could get. The air was trembling. The temperature was a gazillion degrees. All I had on me was a shirt without buttons and one sandal.

I would like to say aliens dumped me in the middle of nowhere after an abduction. I would like to say I was walking across America. Or better yet, running, like that guy in that book that was made into a movie. But I cannot say that. No, none of that.

The best I could ever get out the situation is something to write about. That would have made me happy if I was a writer. But I cannot even say that. No, none of that.

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