My car is packed full. I can see clearly out the back over a set of plastic cones, and I can take along a passenger as long as he or she does not own much. I brought 50% too much on the road.
I’m hauling ski clothes, tire chains, maybe ten pairs of pants, formal wear, and fabric for projects that never started. Panicked departing my San Francisco apartment, I filled the car with security. On the road, I wear a single adventuring uniform and not a variety of clothes. Oh well, better to carry 50% too much than 50% too little.
I’m facing a new phase of my travels: emptiness. I finished my projects. The icosahedron is complete, I took my parents to enough museums, I read my books, I explored New York City, and I visited almost all of my New England friends. As the sun sets over my parents’ house, I don’t know what to do with the evening.
I have been so much on the move for three months that this newfound empty time feels unwarranted. I grow quickly bored. I peruse my United States atlas, plan my trip back west, and write lists. I return to my childhood evening hobby: lying on my bed to stare at the ceiling.