at some point you tire of the monotony of monotony, days blending into one green haze until all the leaves fall down dead and rot, somewhere in the boredom you glimpse that strand of time; silent and ominous, and you wonder at the vagaries you somehow missed before each road like a cloverleaf branching off from interstate 44; the high road takes you to Galena, or Baton Rouge, or some east coast shore where all the ships come to rest the low road might lead you through six shades of hell but the view would probably be worth it if we all found our happy thoughts and re-learned how to fly