I keep my visions to myself

I have this vision of myself that's helping me get through the last hectic days at this awful job. I am lying awake in the cabin of a truck, reading poetry by the light of a camping lantern. I'm in the middle of nowhere and it's dark outside, the kind of darkness you only get far from cities, Kerouac's Sad American Night, only a small truck stop's weak neon light competing with the stars. Maybe I am in the desert, and the cool night breeze whispers against my skin through the open truck window. I can hear the highway and it beats along with my own heart. I am reading Bukowski, maybe Ginsberg, alternating between the book and my journal, where I scribble soft night words which scatter into the dust and the stars as soon as they leave my pen.