It is only a little after dinner, but a womb-like darkness has laid down across the highway. This being the winter solstice, the sky is an endless blanket of blackness as if the highway had slid down into the guts of the earth instead of running the patch of Maine between Portland and Kittery. The only lights are cigarette red from the cars in front of me and dashing white from the cars northbound. We swim down the arteries in our compartments, containerized and separated. It has been years, but Bono still sings through the speakers about how he still hasn’t found what he is looking for. None of us have, Bono, I say out loud to no one because I am alone on this journey. Not one of us. The darkness feels like it should be milkshake thick, perhaps even obsidian amber, with our headlights trapped and shining forever. But instead, the miles slip by like time as we each push the gas pedal harder to get where we are already destined to be, all the colors bleeding into one.
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