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57 Road Report Driving west through sandstone’s red arenas, a rodeo of slow erosion cleaves these plains, these ravaged cliffs. This is cowboy country. Desolate. Dull. Except on weekends, when cafés bloom like cactus after drought. My rented Mustang bucks the wind—i’m strapped up, wide-eyed, busting speed with both heels, a sure grip on the wheel. Black clouds maneuver in the distance, but i don’t care. Mileage is my obsession. i’m always racing off, passing through, as though the present were a dying town i’d rather flee. What matters is the future, its glittering hotel. Clouds loom closer, big as Brahmas in the heavy air.The radio crackles like a shattered rib. i’m in the chute. i check the gas and set my jaw. i’m almost there. ...

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