partidas y arribos

you say goodbye and then the engine start and you feel a rush, a connection with each little cog that runs this clock, the mechanical spirituality so 21st-centuriesque that children are born with wi-fi included, above the mountains it feels so weird so unnatural as if I'm missing all the little landscapes and faces and peestops and nights-at-little-inns that would compose a REAL trip, still the lights down there tend to have a high æsthetical value, in which I mean they are pretty, and then the migration papers come, and in this land of unfairness, it's always about the taxes... and "it ain't nothing sure in this life, except death and taxes" and I'm sure they won't collect taxes from dead people so it should be "death or taxes" and then you fill the papers in, declaring all the little trinkets and useless waste you bought, cause you had to you need to so you can show and shove all your power in-to the neighbors like a aroused male peacock would as if your smartassphone would save you in case of a plane crashing into the rocks and woods almost as if they were claiming their dead brothers stolen by us when justice is made and in case of a crash panic would be spreading like flu but there would be one smiling at last free from our stock-market-samsara and the customs control and taxes and prohibition. 'cause death is freedom, life is illusion. but the plane comes down, the way it should be. and life goes on, the way it can be. at least I can see the ones I miss, the ones that put sense into all of this.