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  • Once Los Angeles is far enough behind us, the ground starts to spread and loosen. It is a massive blankness of humanity, but isn't free of us. The interstate tears through the desert like an artery, carrying trucks and cars full of people and people's things. Eighteen wheelers move in formations of three to box the smaller cars in and push them ahead.Once we're alone on the road we open the windows and learn to ignore the sound of our own engine, and all we can hear is the wind our car makes and the quiet heat.

    Burns darken the hillsides, like permanent cloud shadows over the land. They are not so light or moveable, though, they're fire's bruise stains that will take years to cover. In between, sand and scrub separate us from dune and rock, and Route 66 appears alongside us every so often like a corpse's vein.

    As we hit the tops of hills, our ears pop and the valleys dip and fall off, brown-green like the sea. Before us, gashes of spilled asphalt and split tires dot the road between dead crows and windshield pieces.

    It's the most beautiful place we've ever seen.
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