Somewheere in rural Virgina, 1:36pm:

The sky is low, like a ceiling. It kind of makes me claustrophobic, especially since I'm not used to it. In Georgia, where I live, you can look to the highest point in the sky and still see clouds. But I guess that's because we're so high up, in the mountains. They frame the sky, not pointy like mountains are drawn, but round and long. They're so solid, I have the feeling they know something I don't. Small farms dot the large expanse of countryside. The small ribbon of road we are driving on curves, anxious to find the best path through the mountains. I feel like we are intruding. There is a calm that settles in this part of the country, a calm that is non- exixstent in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia. The cows lazily graze on grass, and the small houses are deep in thought. The sky is a protective dome, and now I glance back up at the gradient of blues. I smile and wonder.