I opened the sunroof and hit the road again!

Seeing the country, wide open spaces, rolling hills, cows, roads fading off into the distance is good, but I do enjoy driving under tall buildings. Buildings, skyscrapers, bridges and sculptures of dinosaurs all built by men and steel and brawn.

Turn up the volume and let everyone hear my tunes as I peruse the downtown city scene of Big City, U.S.A. however it was my iPod I was listening to and my ears were damaged. I unplug the earbuds and plug it into AUX and all is right as P.J Harvey's "Big Exit" hits the air like a shotgun rampage of sound.

People I meet, who haven't even seen the plates on the car ask "Where you from?" knowing I'm not from here. Maybe I'm not from anywhere. Maybe I'm not here.

Like Orson Welles' cross-country driver who sees the same hitchhiker over and over and discovers at the end of the "Suspense" radio show, he (Welles) has in fact has been dead for days and it's all been the dream of a ghost.

Maybe I'm really not here.