Driving this way doesn’t bring up
any nostalgic feelings, doesn’t take
me back to a room I’d like to be in,
it doesn’t give me something new
to obsess over, it isn’t beautiful.
It’s no constituent to the duration
of loved intervals vacating the
grass-green hills pigeonholed in
the painting in my closet. It isn’t that
great or bad. It’s mostly not anything you
could live in, or think about, or want.

Photo by: Agnes Thor