East US-6, 8:30am

The morning arrives too urgently. Sleep was episodic, as the general tension of loneliness ousted comfort.

I suit up in my Wrangler work pants, take one more shit, brush my teeth, and make the ritual trek to my car.

I dread the war zone, which is the US-6/I-25 interchange, so I crank up the volume on “War Pigs” by Black Sabbath.

My work day is pleasant enough: mounting TV’s and building furniture. I’m due a good fee. That’s great. But there’s a knowing through my skin and tissue and bones that on that wage, I’ll scarcely ever afford a decent house of my own in Denver.

But even beyond that gripe is the despair of repetition without recompense: that this predictable, daily grind substitutes for throwing frisbees, long and languid lovemaking, a slowly-simmering spaghetti, masterly conversations, the laying back of a head on a stomach, and an arduous climb to reach the incomparable vista of a de Cristo peak.