Drowsy drivers exit, but not from consciousness. The rolling hills and partially time-destroyed houses taunt me with ideas of farm families, self-sustaining in their compounds on land beneath orange hills, a brown river full of mineral nutrient, great for the skin, and interspersed with green fields and trees, wider than they are tall. Keeping a catalogue of all things we see in order to expand the horizon of the world as we know it. It all grows out of the edges, bursting with life of all colors and cadence, we race through with a singular intent next to the sidetrack missions for enlightenment, constant surprises around each corner, sheer volume of rock formation and rock music, making real connections between the material world and the imagination, when a true event reminds you of a dream you had, recurring or not, that is knowing your moments are golden. When you have foreseen your present it is gorgeously revisited.