This is what this road trip looks like from behind the wheel. Ahead, there is  a long rolling strip of Interstate split into two lanes with shoulders and entrances and exits. There are road signs, overpasses, and vehicles. Always there is sky and empty land stretching away from the road as you eat up miles and look for a good rational talk radio station coming to you from an underground bunker somewhere in Kansas where cows, corn, and missile silos peacefully co-exist. Clouds hover like cartoons waiting for words. I-40 is a main path connecting east and west and I am somewhere between Gallup and Flagstaff. This is Indian country, one of the highest concentrations of Native Americans in the country. Along the freeway you whiz past billboards promoting blackjack, cheap meals, entertainment, and hotel rooms. The casino parking lots have big rigs silent as drivers catch sleep and divert themselves from tedium. Travel is what happens between your starting point and arrival point. It is often boring enough that I count cars, fence posts, telephone poles. There is nothing happening here that anyone with an imagination would want to write about.  
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