Twenty-eight. The earth is a menace. It comes and keeps coming, tossing its rocks and branches at you in fits until it sits there silently wondering why this creature is to weak to strike back. For a second, only, it renews its attack. The wheels are friends that keep rolling, jumping around on the gravel, twisting left and right as they fight to hold on to this raring planet. When the road and the trees line up there isn't infinity there, just The End being pushed this way through no will of its own.
Twenty-nine. After each horizon another takes its place, but who can say this goes on? A horizon of color is left behind and no one can say now what color it was. A horizon of space beside me, and time, still, in the future. Some. Lives slip past.
I'm holding on to the handle, not used to the rumble jumble sliding around on a bucket seat. Safety belt on but I can't check the drivers. There's no thought here, just sensation. Thirty. Thirty miles per hour riding in Scott's car back to Thief River Falls, the fastest my body had been in months. It would be too perfect to say my soul had barely left the canoe -- but certainly my thoughts were there.
Slowness and standstill the rest of the day, I fought a more visceral battle with the ground as it chewed up spokes and inner tubes -- legs kept spinning.
Day 115 ended: I did not record the place