Grant-Lee Phillips
Walking in the Green Corn

The navigator indicates 25 minutes to Étretat. Normandy. Endless wheat fields passing by the window. Grant-Lee's voice whispering Buffalo Hearts. A confidence between old friends. Buffalo... A call to the land... Hearts.
It involves me. Stimulates my senses. The cornfields like waves and I enter an unnatural dimension. No. Natural.
The GPS aligns with external stimuli and reiterates 25 minutes to the destination.
Dirt roads, curves, and the corn that moves in the rearview mirror, pulsating rhythmically to the heartbeat, to the beat of Buffalo Hearts.
I grind kilometers without an idea. Just space moving and Grant-Lee's songs following each other like a trail of the sea.
With every lane change, level crossing, or road narrowing, I think I'm getting closer, but the GPS, ironically, makes fun of me.
Always the same 25 kilometers.

I believe an entire day has passed. It's a hypothesis because the dashboard shows no signs of life. Only the navigator is alive. Breathing. Me and him. Us and Buffalo Hearts.
Several hours have passed since my decision to go against the GPS's suggestion. I have no idea of the time but Grant-Lee has completed several full loops in the stereo. And I feel lost amidst the wheat fields. I've even forgotten my goal. Me, always in search of gold but holding only pyrite. Fool's gold. Fools... gold...