I touch down in a country lost in time. Evergreens shiver with the last remnants of winter, brown hills burst with sleeping seedlings. Squat homes stand papered in vinyl siding and stone chimneys are darkened with charred poplars.

As I drive even further north, I see the lakes shiver in the clawing wind, and the narrow roads twist through the gently inhabited countryside.

The bar has the same squishy carpet, the restaurant the familiar Natchez mural with black and white vinyl booths. The fries are canola fishy, the water glass has fingerprints. The music clings to me, tubes of ecstatic reverie in the gauzy light.

All of these things are floating, turning, tumbling, like a washing machine in my mind.

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