Texas is background filled with what you put upon it. Bugs squash on the windsheild. Wind rushes into every space. Wind leans into the highway signs. When you walk out of a truck stop, the TA in Amarillo, the pavement falters and dies and you're on dirt, a little crushed gravel. You don't know it but the wind is at your back. You're thinking about the song sparrow singing on the fence post that happens to be leaning away from you. Keep walking. Keep walking. And then, you turn around. There's that wind purring into ears, every hole: you can't go back. You can never go back.