He drives across the county looking for love, and when he finds it, he keeps driving. When he is tired he writes on blogs, looking for approval; he is only slightly aware of himself these days. After 23 years he feels himself coming alive: driving 55 instead instead of 80, smoking occasionally, confident of full maturity by 25. He's wary of his own choices, aware of how the Divine is funneling, indefinitely—unbearably gently—towards his own good. Needs and wants still are, and perhaps always will be, divergent, but there is at least recognition of the canyon between, that it cannot be jumped with ease anymore. He sits in a conference, comfortable as hell, dreaming of Cambodia.

From ease we dream of pain. From pain we dream of ease.

On the road he dreams of love, when in love he dreams of the road.