Gold band rings of sand and sun gleam on Califonia's suburbia. The sunshine was gone when we started our journey, newlyweds due east on Interstate 40. Laissez les bon temps rouler The Crescent City would sing once we rolled up in to her jazz filled streets. But riding with you the speaker sounds moaned low, the tempo went slow, the blues paired itself with the countless hours of darkness, that were inturrupted by spurts of bright lights that lasted countable moments in the backcountry dark night. No left at Albuquerque, another city you chose to blow through, though her faint urban glow seemed beautiful in the rearview.— The few words that passed between us sat stiff and tired: words that I shared that you shared that we shared for the sake of words' sake to be shared. Instead, we reverted to the quiet, to dull the tepid noise as hours passed hours, you rushed and you raced, but what was it all towards? The rough mountains we passed had turned into plateaus in the silent din of darkness; what was the difference? How could we've known? In wintry reticence, night dwindled to day the early morning frost, and desert snow ran, melted away. Hours past the last wooden tower had gone past, amidst the swampy mist, we wound along a serpentine bridge, above turbid water which, to me, made clear my role not of passenger but of hitchhiker to this journey.