Running along the backbone of the California/Nevada border is highway that can transport you to a higher medium.
I start in Reno, Nevada, and soon find myself lost and dreaming. I see the majesty of Iran, Mongolia and Siberia in front of me. Places of solitude that will withstand the tests and stresses of the modern world.
Out here one must rely on a higher power to guide you, lest you wither and die on the scrub oak and black sand. I follow the open road and trust in this philosophy.
I pass by empty brothels that stand as a reminder of man’s weakness for flesh, yet the open road of Highway 395 opens to me a path that is greater than this momentary flash of fleeting satisfaction.
I yearn for the comfort of a greater significance.