The mist hangs dense and low , beading water on our visors. The air is cold and damp and we’re lost. Quarry walls rise all around us. The trail we’re hunting is nowhere to be seen.
In traffic we sit. The solar heat beats through the window of the Isuzu. Faux animal skins cover the seats. The freeway a perfect formation of different cars, engaging in monotonous routines. It’s 8am.
No more articles