En Route to San Anselmo:
bumbling along the dusty stretch of road that seems to amble on ad infinitum leaving behind wastelands saturated with cows crowded reared for slaughter black and white bodies break up the smear of ochre beneath bottle-blue skies and the spindly figures of telephone lines sentry over a lonely desert town veiled in cracked concrete. nursing brown bag beer in the backseat, you ache for the breath of autumn setting New England trees ablaze with ethereal halos, seas of vermillion this feels familiar: like a memory molded to your bones, nestled somewhere between your heart and your ribs, stirred from its slumber by a smell, a lilt of the head, a brush of shoulders, a confluence of glances and ivy choking brick walls as old as America. gallivanting past boutiques and family-diners frozen in their small town torpor, stolen cigarettes hidden in the valleys of corduroys, you cross leaves strewn like broken bodies underfoot, pond swelling, campus exh...
