As always, at that point, a few miles before reaching the PLS[1], she just needed to keep the windows down – no matter what time and temperature it was – and she needed to talk to Neil Young. She said so – I need to talk to Neil Young. Then, the song was always the same, and to be honest it was also banging with Brahms’s Hungarian Dance No.5, but in that song the Viennese Secession lived peacefully with the Old Frontier. Whatever air pulling it came in, bouncing inside the passenger compartment of the car. She still had four miles to gather all the ideas and to do it alone, on that occasion. They would have contaminated everything if she had not arrived in time. No, it was to be excluded. They had already contaminated everything, and they had not even given the trouble of delimiting the last point he was told to be seen.

Still a mile. The road was much improved, and the wheels slipped away without difficulty. The dust had in fact climbed to the Douglas Firs peaks surrounding the carriageway, which did not oscillate at the passage of the car. The last person who had gone from there had passed by for a while, so she knew it well. It was also probable that the last person he’d been there was her man. “You still do not smell your smell, there’s no trace of your smell at all.” In any case, she did not slow down, she did not look for traces of him for now. It was not yet the right time, and she had to wait for that moment.

She started to do this because she was quite tired of everything the others expected of her. She had already tried in the past, but somehow the wind had always been the opposite. She liked to think so, that the wind had been contrary and that she had not had much choice. In fact, she had had choices, but obviously it was not the right time to download all that bad and unhealthy ballast, that is, the weight of the expectations of others. Everything could be easier if only she had been docile. But that was not the way, and the wind did not blow exactly in that direction. She needed more, much more, and the history of the past was there, simply on the floor, and she loved to look on the ground, though not exactly under his feet, but further on, always a little further than ‘Last horizon available. At the end, the trains were always in the middle of broken and gray branches, or they could have been because the Pacific Trail had done too well his duty in all those miles. She really thought of how the whole affair of his life might have been in another way. In the end she was on the track, what she liked or not, and there were millions of other reasons not to show that she had failed in the rest, but not in those things, not in pursuit. That’s right.

[1] PLS: Point Last Seen.

[All Rights to Kyt Walken, 2017]

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