Highway Eleven After Seven
Pizzicato strings float freely above a warm bed of synth, driving toward a distant crescendo but never reaching it.
I'm transported to a dark corridor of evergreens spotted with deciduous trees. Night has just fallen and the stars are bright above me. The large boxy sedan I'm driving glides smoothly over the asphalt, steady as a tank. All is quiet in my cabin, except for the hum of the tires on the road. A gas station ahead glows softly in the night. As I pass it, gazing fixedly for several seconds, it calls out to me. "Come buy some glossy new pins. You can get some candy too, and a comic book."
I'm transported to a dark corridor of evergreens spotted with deciduous trees. Night has just fallen and the stars are bright above me. The large boxy sedan I'm driving glides smoothly over the asphalt, steady as a tank. All is quiet in my cabin, except for the hum of the tires on the road. A gas station ahead glows softly in the night. As I pass it, gazing fixedly for several seconds, it calls out to me. "Come buy some glossy new pins. You can get some candy too, and a comic book."
...
I'm not thinking about gas as the soft glow falls slowly behind me. Soon my car is alone again in this corridor. Beyond the dim green lights of my dashboard I see only streaks of yellow, constantly rushing toward me against a backdrop of black. Just ahead at my 12 o'clock a white dot shimmers. It's connected to other white dots, which I recognize as the Big Dipper. And right to my left, it's Cassiopeia. There are stars all around me. I have the solemn sensation of flying through space alone.
The tug of the steering wheel on my hands pulls me out of this reverie just as my car rolls onto the gravel shoulder then plummets into a ditch.
The tug of the steering wheel on my hands pulls me out of this reverie just as my car rolls onto the gravel shoulder then plummets into a ditch.
...
It's 1982 and I've just died at the roadside at night, in some strange forest. I don't remember where I was going or who I was with. But they died too. A small crumpled body lay somewhere nearby. It may have been my son.
These are the only memories I have of that last life I lived. And whenever I hear those pizzicato strings, floating on a warm bed of synth, I'm transported to that time and place. To live the strange memories again. To die once more, in a corridor of trees and darkness.
These are the only memories I have of that last life I lived. And whenever I hear those pizzicato strings, floating on a warm bed of synth, I'm transported to that time and place. To live the strange memories again. To die once more, in a corridor of trees and darkness.
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