I'm getting used to waking up at dusk, rest areas along the highway, the hum of tractor-trailers becomes a lullaby, and I couldn't sleep in my old mattress, even if I wanted to.

I turn the key. The engine stammers to life, at least once more, and the rumbling from my stomach forms a two-part harmony. I set off to find a bank machine. At first I didn't eat. I thought maybe they'd find me if I used my credit cards. But, I'm not a criminal. I'm just a coward. I don't think they hunt down cowards anymore.

I never fall asleep at night anymore, unless I'm driving. I flip on the radio.

"Forgive me frequencies, for I have flown. It has been 200 miles since my last consolation."

I'm thankful, for I always receive a reply.

"...You got a fast car. Is it fast enough so we can fly away..."

Snap off the radio. Every damn song has the word "we" in it, and I won't to eat today. Instead, I'll put fewer miles between me and my destination: a legendary place that came in a dream, a place called "thehellouttahere". I don't want to go. I have to go.

Her life is a fuzzy impressionist painting framed by pretty curtains and meticulous landscaping. The world is flat. She can see it from her window. If the world were round, she would remember trips taking longer, and no curvature of the earth ever kept her from reaching her destination. She stamps a smily-face on the kill list of lies that her husband started a year ago with lies like "I'll never leave".

I'm getting used to waking up at dusk, rest areas along the highway.

This one has a diner and I wonder if I'm real, or if I'm just an extra in a B-flick from the fifties. The waitress watches me walk in, pours me a cup of black coffee before I even sit down. I can tell just by the smell it's Amway coffee. Her saleswoman haircut gives her away. She wants to get out of this dump someday, but happy endings are out of style.

I notice a juke-box in the back. It's a prop - a gaudy, old-fashioned record players with bubbles flowing through glass tubes. I find a silver quarter in my pocket, place it in the slot, enjoy the sound silver makes. Maybe the guy who empties the coin-box will find it when it rings again.

"Forgive me 45s, for I have flown. It has been 300 miles since my last consolation."

I'm thankful, for I always receive a reply, and, there's always truth on a jukebox.

"...We gotta make a decision. Leave tonight, or live and die this way..."

The radio and the odometer are busted. Not knowing how long it's been since my last consolation, I try to borrow pieces of comfort from jukeboxes on the road, but the guy who empties the coin box keeps taking the records and replacing them with tinny-sounding CDs. I hope I get used to waking up at dusk, rest areas along the highway, and I couldn't sleep in my old mattress, even if it was still there for me.