Highways past Sedona. Life blurs and burns as a lone butterfly flaps
by the past, and stumbles on the next turn. The pines are statuesque monuments along hwy 17, before we dip into the concrete sideshow of Phoenix, it’s about 102 degrees. I am reading “When the Mob Ran Las Vegas”, a few pages at a time. The violence is unsettling. I am caught in believing and not believing.