Sometimes I imagine life as a sprawl of disjointed photographs, a series of still-lifes in sepia that preserve some kind of timeline. They pass through the noise and confusion of day-to-day life, threading the needle with certain moments of clarity, all of them unraveling, ultimately, toward death.
I didn’t know how to tell her. How to make her understand that I’d been on the road for almost a month, living out of my car and tent and more than one dirty motel off the highway with minimal human contact and how I’d gotten so used to being alone that I forgot how to interact with other people. We were floating in the shadow of one of the craggiest mountains in Wyoming. This was the kind of experience that was meant to be shared.