Driving home in the dusk on a lonely country road, having abandoned the clogged freeway that is my normal route, I was suddenly gripped by the urge to just keep driving. No destination, no goal, other than to keep moving, to hear the tires sing over another mile of unfamiliar road, following the dotted line forever, just to see where it would take me.

I passed farmhouses and silent rail crossings, empty fields and misty canals. It was at once melancholy and hopeful; mundane, yet profound. Despite the curious sense of mysticism it aroused, I nonetheless slowly drifted out of my reverie and dead-reckoned my way back home, wondering exactly where I’d been.

Where does that road go?