I drive on a warm, 75-degree late night in the summer, the window down, the wind whispering in my ear, licking my skin, and running its fingers through my hair, the bass in the music on the stereo rhythmically pumping and pounding into my body, reaching into the deepest parts of me. I am eager to be a vagabond—aimlessly wandering to no destination—destined for nowhere, yet everywhere I go is where I am meant to be.
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