Love and Moonlight

At night in my small town, the sky turns cloudy and purple. I like to walk down the chilled, cold road late at night and imagine that I am one of the last people in the world, recording all of the imperfections and intricacies of the moment as a part of a final journey I must make before joining the rest of the population elsewhere.
The road is so dimly lit that the cars parked on either side of the tiny curbs can barely be seen, except for one, which glistens under the moonlight. I'm reminded suddenly of my need to buy a shitty truck, one of those old ones that are practically indestructible, and drive north. I wouldn't stop until Canada, then I would turn around and go all the way to Arizona, just because I could and because gas is under 2$.
I crouch down and curl up on the road then, in the fetal position, the way I entered the world and the way I hope to exit it someday that is not today or tomorrow or the day after that. My hands on the pavement at the center of the road seem special, because I realize in that moment that so few people touch the center of the road. They don't feel the cracks and the bumps and the leaves that are pressed there by the false rubber tires we all drive around and around. Sometimes when I'm walking all alone, in the darkness and the damp and the cold, I feel tears well up in my eyes. Because there's something about being the only one, being alone in a place so big and endless, that strikes at my heart and my soul and my fingertips. It makes me want to stay there forever, to sleep in the center of that road or to scream there or to just watch the stars in the big wide sky, until the moon sets and the sun rises and the rest of the world wakes up again, and I'm no longer alone.