They say if you drive south long enough, you live forever. So I did it, or that is to say I'm doing it. Pantsless at the bottom of Oregon, I reach out to you.
At the edge of Washington there is an industrial park. They make clouds. I did not stop for the tour, but the basics were obvious. Mountains of logs cover the concrete from the sidewalk to the wide mouthed factories. From these factories there issued copious expanding matte steel clouds. They coated everything above us, and two days later we haven't driven out from under them yet. I suspect this is the main fabrication point for the greater North West. As we left this tower of industry behind us, the car was cut off by a dirty red and purple panelled Chevy truck. It wove a bit before straightening out in the right lane. I read the back of their your heads as they pulled away; a baseball cap, a shoulder length brunette, a long blond. I forgave the near miss. The car was running erratic on a seventeen year old boner.
Crossing into Oregon involved a bridge and a sign. I would have prefered something more but so it is. The winding road was guarded by giant golems, inert excavators that slept but not so soundly that I would have honked the horn. Certainly one could assume they only waited for a hard hat toting operator to come and resume his work on the earth, but there was more malice in them than that. No, I think it's safe to say that they'll animate the moment there's trouble.
This is not the end.
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