Among the Ghosts of Gomorrah

I left the house tonight with nowhere to go.  I just drove around my deserted town, ended up at a taco joint on the far side of town, bought a taco and burrito, turned around and drove home.  It wasn't such a long drive, my town isn't that big, not really.  But it felt way longer than it should have.  The deserted streets, the surrealism of the streetlights laying a perspective stolen from the closed shores of limbo, the red lights... red lights, stopping what?  The flow of ghosts?  (and iTunes brings up Ghost Riders... how appropriate... how very fucking appropriate... I think this machine reads my mind sometimes) 

The drive felt so long because it perfectly reflects my world at the moment: all but empty.  The last few days I've come to realize I've been deluding myself.  I do not belong in this world, it isn't mine, it never has been, long odds say it never will be.  No, I'm not suicidal, yet, and no, I'm not drunk even though I probably should be.  It's just that there are so few who can even begin to understand how I see the world.  The deserted midnight streets of this horse and a half little town lost in the backwater boondocks of Oklahoma are such a perfect symbol of how I feel right now, riding out a case of the it's time to pack it up and move on again blues.  It makes no sense to stay when the only thing staying will do is add sin to your soul.

An open question, oh finder of this message in a bottle:  which is worse?  Suffering because you don't know why, or knowing why and suffering to the fact you seem to be the only one who does know? 

Fuck the internet.  No, don't fuck it, it might get pregnant and have more of it's kind.  Don't need any more of that, the amount floating loose is already ten times the safe tolarance limits for the survival of humanity, at least as people.  Not quite enough, yet, to put all the people in pods and release Agent Smith to go hunting, but not far shy.  So no, don't fuck the internet.  Bad idea.

I want... a Peterbuilt.  I want sixty thousand pounds riding low and rolling easy behind me, I want a destination on which ever coast is furthest away.  I want the hypnosis of the highway, I want that six hundred horse kittycat to purrrrrr me the happy highway song, that half hallucinagenic soundtrack for the waking dreams of the highway, the dreams of a welcoming smile from a woman waiting warm and willing who doesn't care that to my eyes the world bears no resemblance to the lies we were told so the shitbitch of society stays glued together with tears and pain, all she wants is a smile and a soft touch to go with a verse or two of love poetry written just for her.  Sanctuary, in the cab or in the arms of a three night woman who doesn't need to know what I am, just who.  Yea, I want a Peterbuilt.  At least I think I do.