Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash

i like to see how far i can go. first the water, then the highway. next i’ll cross it. or, down six miles of sidewalk ribboning between shiny sharp buildings. 746 people, 39 bodegas and 5 rats along the way. there’s a girl who does the same thing—only it’s her local theme park and a spinning teacup. around and around and around and around she likes to go. always after five too, because once the sun sets, at that speed, the carnival lights begin to look like they’re dripping. then there’s the man who drives the roads at night until they start to blend into the landscape. his daughter dozing in the backseat; revving up so much dust it envelops the car. on either side, a lonely desert expanse. pressing the gas until his foot starts to ache. if you just keep moving, it reminds you how much space you have. that you’re not trapped inside a coffin yet. that your heart beats every single second, flooding your veins with new blood and flushing out all the excess. if you just keep moving, eventually, you start to feel your head again. the onion from some recent meal comes back to your mouth, and the chap back to your lips. maybe your back feels longer. if you just keep moving, you begin to realize that the sky — which at first looked like four billion miles of nothing— is actually breathing through every star and just blinking in the spaces in between.