I left Coffee Girls by ten in the morning on a Sunday having woken up in Atlanta, flown to KC, abstaining from breakfast or beverage to give it up to the Coffee Girls. It was an idyllic morning but one rushed by the unseen force that frivolously pointless travel exerts on time. The absence of itinerary can either be languid or voracious. Foolishly I let the more manic of the toxins infect my brain on the desolate plateaux of this voyage bouncing from here to there, desperate to get to the next place however godforsaken and bleak I knew it would be. Agitated by the sun pounding me through the storefront of Coffee Girls I set controls for the Nelson Atkins, my only real primary for the sad orbits of the maroon rental car. As these things went, mapless, as always, I was lost below UMKC and found myself motoring in circles around Aixois debating a landing.

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