I've got it. I know what to do. Gather several hardcore stoners together and get them to apply the same energy they would put into scrapin' that bowl to our national problems. We'd be set in no time flat.
Ten Times The Sun
Ten times the sun for the price of a day. Long ride today on a long flat road without trees or nooks or tuckaways. Strip miners made it like a butterknife across a lump of playdough. They look at you weird, everyone looks at you weird because you're an alien on the landscape. The same sideways, awkward glance like a snapshot. No one should be here. This is reserved for nothingness and buzzards. You could sing, you could yell at the top of your lungs, and no-one would hear it. They only zip through behind glass and the soft hum of blowing freon. Even the field of cows stops to look at you, they all stop and look up. What is that? Why is it here? There's the rotting carcas of a coyote with a permanent snarl plastered against the asphalt, the buzzards are watching, will you eat it? Somewhere the gates of Sunday duties let loose and they start filing past to hit the liquor store, zip, zip, zip. One after the other, glancing quickly and away. Just as quickly they go back by again and quiet returns. Gears turning, it's hot but it feels damn good to be alive.
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