Cross into Chile, now on the famous rough gravel roads. Feather the brakes, blur the reeds and broad leaves that line the periphery of attention, grinding the big tires indulging my too lazy to pick a line. Rivers bluer than cobalt blue, a synesthesic blue frothing toward the Pacific, slate marble basketball pebbles helpless over the long run. Dropping between volcanos, too conoid for mountains, a mathematical snow line.
I grin out loud at the temporary escape from the dense armor plated flies that buzz hover straight out of the Pleistocene and swarm madly at any pause. Evolved mechanism of intimidation and vengeance: once they land they have to be smacked so hard that you hurt yourself, too.
Long remote stretches unfurl into the chalk low sky heat, mirage to a handsome farm, dogs straining on leashes. Sheep, horses, llamas. And then traces of human beings dissolve behind as if politely humbly hastily excusing themselves, only the rolling ripio and hours hours, an internal chat in an E cypher, time stops to laughter. 10pm and light out looking up.