Sometimes I think my job is driving places. I travel for bonsai, and, though I have been flown in on a big jet airliner, like a rockstar, I kinda prefer the roadtrips, like good ol’ Willie.
Now, Mr. Nelson often has a driver so he can sit in the back of the coach and write songs, drink whisky, and commune with the cosmos with various strains of psychoactive long chain lipids. But he does takes his shifts behind the wheel.
I, not surprisingly as I’m a poor man, don’t have the drivers, so I must roll down the road alone.
Ambling past farms, the sun shining on the crop, be it corn, sorghum, soy. The wind gently swaying the leaves, suddenly, the rows line up and, for that split second, your eye is pulled far back into space, as though you’re in some psychedelic Disney cartoon or looking down the…
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