She shifts continuously in her seat. Her hair is orange in the sun, and dried out. Red, yellow and blue of America in the 90s, or of a Jean Prouvé bench. She falls back into her seat on purpose… glancing at me…
Then: a storage company, like many of the odd, elongated structures that we pass, escapes me at an impossible speed. Blue doors repeat indefinitely for emphasis; Then: rocks amidst a truck painted in camouflage in a trail of army vehicles. Occasionally, a strange little house pops up over a hill.
The girl with red hair makes an awkward appearance: She lays against the window; her hair is like fire. She reads a book.
Text by John White
















































