run to the hills

i should still be sleeping.

halfway between peterborough and ottawa the sun really begins to go down, and the sky is stained that wonderful coulour of purple pink that i swear only happens in northern-ish ontario. the rocks coming out of the ground have long ago turned to granite, fading from the limestone that i can feel without seeing and the trees, rushing past as i push over and beyond the speed limit, blur until i understand what tom thompson really saw when he painted them.

the moon begins to slowly climb the horizon trailed by her companion.

it makes me terribly sad in a bracing way, and altogether happy at the same time.

i can't help but wonder if this is it.