book of days serial #10

It was essential that she be on the freeway by ten o’clock. Not somewhere on Venice Boulevard, not listless at a metered onramp, but actually on the freeway. If she was not amidst her peers, her lessors, and their disastrous shared environment, she would lose the day’s rhythm, its precariously imposed momentum that was structured across something other than time: group dynamics of the anonymous. Once she was on the freeway and had maneuvered her way to the fast lane she turned on the radio at high volume and drove. She drove the San Diego to the Harbor, the Harbor up to the Hollywood, the Hollywood to the Golden State, the Santa Monica, the Santa Ana, the Pasadena, the Ventura. She drove it as a riverman runs a river, every day more attuned to its currents, its deceptions. She grew cold to her peers.

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