Transmission Ground Control: A Test

Through the hands of strangers we went. Thrumming.
Dropping over the western landscape and listening to Brad Mehldau jazz. Into a modest sleeping place. A super-noisy air conditioner and footfalls of patrons alone. Awoke to bright sunshine.
The people I’d seen at the airport, their faces, their hopes and dreams, still arriving, still departing.
        Pacific air cool and fresh.
And sunbeam on which a toddler surfs babbling an indecipherable language. The baby yells out and points to the sky: Nothing but blue sky.
Curving roads wend down.
To the crashing
Ocean.
Through Dutch towns asleep on a Sunday; drowsy and empty, slumbering hemlock and hammock and blank storefronts we amble. At the border androids run the asylum docket. Lives typed on pieces of paper, in manila folders, in gunmetal gray file cabinets in nondescript tunnels deep in the Nevada nevermore.
        Crossed the border in our car, and in our minds, began pondering where our home is… what is our purpose? Cars, and vans, highways and tree lines: The inexplicable sweetness of one moment, the potential for savagery the next. White on the dashboard; a blue yonder yawning.

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