I was traveling through the Interstate in West Texas. The land was flat and dry, the barren meshed with the earth in a seemingly insurmountable path of red dust. The road was straight and flat, the speed limit high and the dry heat oppressive, my exodus from California, a place I called home for life, was realized in this Southwestern desert far away from populations and the halls of power that supposedly make this American organization operate. I was in West Texas, a place near to my heart but spatially far away, a place where I could get lost and nobody would know or judge me. In the Rio Grande of Big Bend or the Lone highways of Marfa, Valentine, Van Horn, – I could do my visual bidding and go about my own business.