No one writes enough about California and the overwhelming feeling of the green hills starching above you, the hazy distance of mountains jutting up behind those hills, the thin, foggy blue behind and above and all around barely breaking against the starry nothingness of outer-space. This is raw life. We are people driving in our mechanized car dreams on an endless highway speeding past our laws but barely getting any closer because those hills are unreachable. And their steep sides jut down into a cavern of reflections — water that’s really sky or sky that’s really water, caught up in clouds. We can’t know what to feel. And you look down and up and you almost get hit by another person’s similar despair because you’re drifting across lanes closer to that metal rail that barely holds us from infinity.