Yesterday I drove across the entire state of West Virginia. Inspired by my visit to Graceland, I listened to Elvis for 300 miles. It was a nice change. For most of this trip (and the last two years) I’ve been listening to the same fifty-four songs on a playlist I might be done with. I’m an over and over and over again kind of person, I won’t stop until I absolutely have to. So, to say I might be done is a big thing for me. I’ve spent a long time in a place of “if only.” Those are the kinds of songs I’ve been singing and it’s starting to suit me less and less. Last year I visited a girlfriend I hadn’t seen in four years, we spent a weekend together in Cornwall. When I opened my backpack she stood over my clothes, said, when did this happen? Everything I own is covered in flowers. I never thought I’d grow up and be a cutesy floral dress kind of person. Every time I get flowers I let them sit in a mason jar until long after they’ve died. It’s starting to feel like that, like I’ve been sitting at a table, dressed up like a fucking sunflower, staring at a wilted rose. If I tried to play he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not the thing would only crumble. There are so many songs that haven’t been written yet. There are lovers in rooms with just their poetry and hopes. Those are the songs I want to listen to. But, after this. I said I don’t stop easily. I have about eight hours of driving left before this whole thing ends. 480 minutes to finish the soundtrack of my past. (at I 64 W Charleston West Virginia)