Avenue

She shifts continuously in her seat. Her hair is orange in the sun, and dried out. Red,  yellow and blue of America in the 90s, or of a Jean Prouvé bench. She falls back into her seat on purpose… glancing at me…

Then: a storage company, like many of the odd, elongated structures that we pass, escapes me at an impossible speed. Blue doors repeat indefinitely for emphasis; Then: rocks, a truck painted in camouflage with army vehicles (to an armory on land?), and occasionally a strange little house pops up over a hill. Old wood and America passing. Candlewax.

The girl with red hair makes an awkward appearance: She lays against the window; the hair is like a fire when she’s close. She reads a book.

Text by John White