On Tuesday afternoon I climbed onto my roof and looked at the ivory sky and thought, "White is the worst color a sky could have. Even grey is better than white because it has shade, character. White is the absence of character. It's a heedless halogen light fixture over the world that lays bare all the flaws, all the flat listlessness. I miss the blue sky."
It's not until Friday evening with 200 miles of highway under my wheels and 300 more until I reach Chicago that I get to see it. I-70 curves west towards the coming night, and a timid Sun casts furtive glances at me from behind a veil made of violet-orange clouds. The license plate on the car ahead of me reads, "CUBS GO."
Lonely days are gone, I'm'a going home. Baby just wrote me a letter.
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