Texas dirt roads run forever. Beneath shadows, sunrises, and sunsets, this mass of mapless alleys bury themselves in barren land, leap under livestock, and occasionally diving underneath dirty shallow stream water.
Windy days bluster, blow, bind passerby's eyes, but rusty roads remain, ever more, never to be confused with concrete.
On one of these roads Lucy Ballman ran.
Curiously, even horizons seem even larger in Texas. Lucy lived for horizons, chasing them like a whim: like a steady, relentless, absolutely madly determined and steadfast whim.
She ran.
Suns came up every day, went down as well. She caught the sunrise, barely missing it, her long legs shattering dust on old dirt roads. Pounding legs alerted cows along her path. Birds set to flight in a flash as she stumbled through their shocked flocks. Jack rabbits flew as she began to fly down hills, up empty gulleys, along broken roads.
This morning, this particular morning, she flew even faster.
Nothing worked. Nothing happened. Nothing changed.
She broke every record, headphone wires floating behind her in a self-created breeze. Texas didn't give her any gusts of wind as reprieve from its stifling heat.
If she wanted something to move, she must move it.
She did.
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