expectations

I have dreams of driving in rows through the snow, someone rear-ends me, but it feels just like
bouncing off rubber. We pull over, he is tall and chocolate dark, simple glasses with invisible frames. I say, its alright - look at this piece of shit anyway. Toby, white, tattered and covered in nostalgia sits with slighly deflated tires in the cold. Hey, it's ok. He goes back to his car, I mutter an akward programmed "see you later!" and then stammer, "well... i mean, maybe... i guess not er uh". He asks if I want his number, and I take a sticky note with a name, number and email address after I scribble down my own. Tim. His name is Tim. No damage has been done.

Now, not a dream, I read Girls With Slingshots, a webcomic i've been following since only last night, and make iced coffee. I listen to a song called Blue Skies by Noah and The Whale. Its a song for me, alright. I carry the complete poems of Carl Sandburg inside under my arm. I set the destination on my GPS to Pittsburg PA, then St. Louis.