Still driving in the desert with Elvis. Elvis is napping with his feet on the dash. The dog has his paws up on the wheel. The dog's name is Killer, but so far no one's even gotten hurt. Pretty good driver, that Killer. I'm counting armadillos by the side of the road when I drop off myself. I dream about tuning the guitar, turning the pegs tighter and tighter, trying for some ever-higher pitch, and in the dream the strings stretch all the way across the sandy dirt and out of sight over the horizon, like telegraph wires, like high-tension power lines, but not high-tension enough to get the sound I'm looking for, listening for, and I keep turning the pegs until my thumb hurts.
It must be a pretty high pitch I do get finally, though, because I wake up to Killer barking at me and Elvis is driving again.
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