Victoria makes me want to go. Want to go. And not just Victoria I guess. I can’t give all the credit to the small energetic and contrary. No not all. Some of it goes to Steinbeck too. Yes, to Steinbeck too. They make me want to go. Go.

I’m dreaming of the drive to the West in the summer. I’m dreaming of the time it would take to make my way lazily cross the country, to drive through the desert and the forests and to end up at another coast in another world. I’m thinking about the things I could see and the places I could go and the people I could meet and I’m thinking about the time I would spend, with a foot out the window and my sunglasses on, and my hair the western valley wind. Sun and gold. I feel myself. Feel myself. I want to just Go. Go. It’s calling me.