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"...and the moon rose over an open field..." August 24, 2002, 1:29 a.m. The cricket song is so loud that even when I press the pedal all the way down and accelerate to 55, I still hear the steady chirrup, chirrup over the sound of the wind rushing by the open windows. It sounds more real than my own voice, singing Simon & Garfunkle a cappella. "Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together..." Cornfields. Every light I come to is green. I flick my brights on and off, only because I can. My car has no clock, but if it did it would read one in the morning. I roll the window down a little more; my hair wraps itself around my cheekbones in the wind. I wonder, just before I hit city lights again, why I feel as though I'm running away.
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