by r.g. johnson
A yellow 1990 Chevy S-10 truck rolls past my anxious airliner window. I search the back pocket of the seat in front of me for a logical explanation, but there is no reason to understand such a thing. The various deities who oversee these matters are at a cafÃ© in Prague discussing whether it is necessary to exist to be considered a god. The mountaintop has just texted me to let me know that she does not miss me. Next to me, a raging European river will not stop singing about the wonder of spring. Suddenly, I have forgotten the name of the town to which I am traveling, and wish I was on a vast green field searching for ancient arrowheads. There is no way to know, but I believe that, in my absence, the ground has completely dissolved.