Miles to go.

I, in a fog, hear myself thinking about two things in the car this night: chocolate milk, and riding a steed at seven oncomers, pell-mell, pinching sweaty reins between my teeth. The whole of wide Ontario feels small, a midnight fog here making its own low ceiling and narrow walls. Two constant red lights above the road are glinting twins ahead of me, saying that they will never be reached. Now, while I look to the part of the world where vision and fog accost, I think to myself, What a jumble all of this is, isn't it? A ruckus, a fray. All of it, everything, all of us, it's just--and I want nothing but to sleep.