The Arithmetic of Solitude
The I-80 is not a road; it is a conveyor belt of gray. For eleven hours, I had been a part of its machinery, my world reduced to the hum of the diesel engine and the flat, indifferent horizon of Nebraska. The sky was the color of a bruised plum, a heavy, late-afternoon gray that seemed to press the oxygen out of the plains. When I pulled into the rest stop, the silence that followed the...
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