He drove.
Beneath him the grey pavement flew like a jet stream under his tires, bordered on one side by a yellow line that promised more asphalt, on the other by a white line that warned of unforeseeable danger. These two lines, the only trustworthy characters in sight, swept left, then right, then straight ahead, casting questioning eyes in search of the next twist or turn like a fishing reel into the endless darkness.
He drove.
The dim lights from the dashboard cast strange shadows on his face, his eyes the sentry on a castle wall. Beside him the passenger seat was occupied by his thoughts; his only companion the sound from the speakers, an orderly reverberation in the air that reflected the mystery outside.
He drove.
Outside of the vehicle the landscape was painting in abstracts. Diverse forests became seas of ebony, rivers and lakes became swathes of silver, distant hills divided the here from the forever.
Every so often a house would scroll by - a lonely porch light representing the souls inside - and the driver would think upon what it would be like to be someone else.
Every so often a sign would be passed - promising civilization, a turn in the road, or an idealized pace of movement - and the driver would pity it standing alone in the cold.
Above, the heavens watched the headlights weave among the shadowed geography, questioning. Would he make the turn? Was the road too long? Would he ever arrive?
He drove.