"Harper, Somewhere in Tennessee"
The miles roll by. Mile after mile after mile of concrete ornament farms, rusted billboards, almost abandoned diners. Eleven hundred miles of washed out hills, weathered old fields, watered down cows. Eleven hundred miles of tall brown grass, grass not that different from what her mom once lay in, kissing some goofy boy, at about her age now.
Because this road, you see, it rides right over her. Over top of her like some lover who just won't listen. Won't listen to a damn thing she says. So she keeps driving, with her senses turned off. While I sing loud. I sing too goddamn loud the praises of some other summer.
The eleven hundred miles, they keep on rolling.