Keep rolling under the stars and eventually you’ll get there, where the wastelands meet the badlands and everything in between – such a place has not a single name, but is only signified by the aching of your aging joints and the way your mouth tastes after rain, like you were a part of everything you ever knew in that yours was the vessel that beheld the knowing. Maybe somewhere along the way you will let someone in on your secret, a dog you love, perhaps, or your mother in her last days – the secret is this: nothing stops moving until you do first, and from a standstill the world is a place of no feeling or consequence. “Make of it what you will,” you will tell the keeper of your secret, “but please remember it on nights you can remember nothing else.