Selections by Theo Keetell
It's 11:30PM, maybe. A hot and humid night in July, August, whenever. Interstate 90 and the speedo is reading somewhere around 85mph. The windows rolled down, the moon high, shining through the open hole above my head. The sound of familiar songs playing so loud that you can feel the blistering rush of wind, but never actually hear it. No guilt, all pleasure. No wrong, only right. One tank empties, another fills.