A road that refuses to be interesting
Heat, dust, and the honest boredom of distance.
The road refused to become a story, which is usually when the story starts behaving.
The landscape offered texture instead of plot, and texture is harder to lie about.
For two hours there was only gravel, heat, and the small arithmetic of moving forward: drink water, check the straps, count the kilometres, pretend the horizon is participating.
No revelation arrived. No cinematic animal crossed the road. The landscape offered texture instead of plot, and texture is harder to lie about.