I'd rather ride along the Furnace Creek at Old Dusties. The scenery is fine and nothings going to compromise my good times and nobody has any qualms to exact any tolls on the things that I see fit. Because I chose them before I set foot here and now they are permanent fixtures in a place I can't leave and nobody makes it back from permanence, locked in perseveration.
You can see Jesus looking down from a veiled pane under foot but his eyes are closed bowing to the Master of Ceremony.
The creek spoke in it's murmurs, and washed over the rocks in the finite time.
By the time they were gone I was still there, walking, riding, and giving no quarter to those above, below, and alongside me in the land of no clocks.