into nevada


All through the night across the great flat state of Utah I fought off lucidity, curl necked against the glass on the 11pm Greyhound. I tripped through half-sleep dreams, sometimes so real they drew a physical response, twitching in my seat as the grey bus motored quietly through Grand Junction and out past the Wasatch Range, moving southwest on Interstate 70. I dreamed on – one ugly dream of myself madly kissing an ex-girlfriend only to find her body was cold, dead and clammy, coated with bitter loveless glue. I jolted upright in the seat, wiping my lips on my sleeve.

In the cold pre-dawn we stopped in the desert in the middle of nowhere. Everyone on the bus was asleep. I looked out the window and saw the solo red glow of the bus driver’s cigarette in the middle of the road – he was standing out there by himself in the darkness, one foot on either side of the centre line, looking towards the distant dawn, Joshua trees and silent cacti all around him. I watched without lifting my head. mesquite I woke again hours later to see the sun break like cold torch light over the desert, slow shafts of tepid sun catching the eaves of an old roadside diner’s in El Bambini, Utah. People were eating breakfast inside the yellow goldfish bowl window. I closed my eyes again as we tracked over the northwestern corner of Arizona, alongside the Virgin River, through bordertown Mesquite and into Nevada.

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