The wheels hum.
There’s this, this feeling when you drive too long when you’ve run out of things to say. When there’s no conversation, no chatter, just the repeating dance of tall, lopsided power poles on the highway appear in the distance, sojourn up to the side of the windshield, then wipe across the window so fast. It isn’t meditative, because you can’t stop paying attention. You can’t talk, because there’s nothing to say. And you don’t even rightly remember the last time things changed.
You don’t know where you’re going, but you’re not sure that’s important.
The wheels hum.