folding from the view of neatly painted trees and old buildings into a lit up underground tunnel,
rounding and bursting into factories with the most incredible structure of rusty and blackened pipes, smoke stacks and rung ladders
to a high-way-- flanked with pines, gas cylinders
and signs printed in capitals
mounds of white-- sand,
overhead wires of trainlines
the greying autumn following the curve of the road
giving in-- to the banks of the river,
green woolly hills look up from its muddy surface
rolling back over their shoulders
and houses paved into their sides
we slide along the railed bitumen listening to pop music
and then stretch-- out along the ploughed and cropped plains,
a truck driver with one bare foot up on the dash, another biting his nails.
i notice our glass screen is splattered with the once living bodies of insects.