and the noodles say back, “I love you, too.”
Westward the Great Plains are lifting, as you Can tell from the slight additional presure The accelerator requires. The sun, Man to man, stares you straight in the eye, and the Ribbon of road, white, into the sun’s eye Unspools. Wheat stubble long behind, Now nothing but range land. But, With tire song lulling like love, gaze riding white ribbon, forward You plunge. Blur the burnt...