I get bored in the bunker. Though I'm safe here from theft and rust, I was happier when I was free to feel wind and rain, see life around me, always changing. Here nothing changes; nothing new to see. I dream of the highway, traveling the country again.
Sometimes I dream of other countries. Dean hates to fly and he'd never trust me to a storage hold, but how good it would be to drive the unfettered German autobahn, or the spaghetti asphalt of the Italian Alps. They call it the old world. They say Europe has churches a thousand years old. How strange! They talk of great art, and sculpted statues so fine they seem alive.
Still, statues are only hard, cold marble. I have my boys – here they come – walking, breathing art in warm, living flesh.
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