Idling AlongThe forlorn highway stretched on as far as the eye could see. The horizon was blotted out with the sluggish churning of thunderclouds, and the grey curtain of rain that draped from them. The world seemed discolored at the moment. The smoking, faded red Buick resting in the middle of the road was grayer than usual, and the swaying grass of the Idahoan savanna was colorless. He scent of frigid rain lingered in my nostrils. If I had a map, I would know where I was, and where I needed to go. But it had blown clear out of the car window fifteen miles back. I had stopped to fetch it, but it was already whipping in the wind, rushing to a dest
Journeys 11. It was a peaceable, amiable day that glittered and glowed where the water lapped against the green algae that had grown on the posts supporting the wharf. There were two or three small, cotton-like clouds that drifted daftly, far above. The wharf was one of several dozen that extended into the sloshing, teal Mediterranean from the dock. There was a great collection of boats of all sorts, rusty giants and benevolent dwarfs; they were all sprawled out either parallel to the wharfs, or swaying delightfully in the breeze some yards out, as ferries, tankers, and yachts maneuvered through them carefully. The sea foam, the salty air, it