I left T.O. quite some time ago. Sometime in the spring, with just a knapsack and a 6 string. I'd made this deal, I was barely 17, armed with delusions of a dream.
Hitchhiked for days, all along the northwest, with no knowledge in my chest, of ways and means and schemes. By the time I hit Seattle I arrived by train. It was called the Empire Building; I don't know how it got its name. Not even old enough to drink but I always found a way. Often stumbling out onto the street the moon shining on my back.
In a few more years, I would try again, this time with my friends who shared much of the same. The same sense of wonder, or desire for faith, as a white lines hurdle past the asphalt how quickly that would change.
We headed out on the 401 feeling no pain. Until one day somehow, that would all turn to shame. So much was in us at the time, it helped me to close my mind. And try not to think at all, as we braced for the fall.
All the good that was promised in life was taken so easily. Turns out reality wasn't cracked up to be, what it was meant to be. When in doubt, I look back to when I was 17. And all these miles and miles and miles that I've seen. Each inch of pavement has a story to tell, some I can't recall, others I remember all too well.