Interstate Twenty
The heat off the asphalt is a physical thing out here, but the horizon stays wide open. I had driven out to Monahans just to check on a building I remembered—to see if it was still standing the way it lived in my head. I found it, recorded it, but the day felt too open to turn back around.
So I kept rolling west.
There is a quiet rhythm to this stretch of highway. Miles of heavy asphalt flying underfoot, the steady hum of trucks keeping company, and the desert mountains sharp against the sky.
Pictured: Monahans, Pyote, and Pecos
