There’s four of us in the car. I know the man next to me, I know the one at the back seat. The identity of the fourth traveler is still unknown to me, but she is one of us. She brings the balance. The windows are rolled all the way down to counter the mean heat. Breathing is difficult. We start in a traffic jam on a dirty Sofia street, first car at the red light, engine purring in anticipation. There is a Soundgarden album turned all the way up, we’re all sweaty t-shirts, tattoos, shaved heads, Frusciante locks, shades and coolness. I’ve got my hands on the wheel, and I keep casting lusty looks to my left and right, seducing teenage girls with fat sneakers, nervous, plump bankers, dumb-eyed policemen, and chain-smoking home chemicals delivery guys. I’m the fucking king, and I’ve got my men by my side. We all know the lyrics to the song and own the neighborhood with our voices. Everybody wants to be us. Everybody wants to be with us. But this is an exclusive, if very rugged, club. We share the same scars. We know the same truths. We feel the same pain, and care shit about it. Been there, done that. Light goes yellow. There is a heavy cloud hanging over this city, and we’re happy as we know we are about to get out. We speak open, we talk everything up, we share and we dream aloud. We’re gonna be invincible. We will live forever, but that’s just a small detail. Thing is, we’re finally together. Me and you and you and her, whoever she is. She brings the balance. Light turns red. We go to New York City now. We drop our companion there, then I take out that map outta my back pocket. It’s been around for a while, that map. It’s greasy and crumpled and torn and missing some directions. But we know the road. It’s the time of the Great Circle. All the way around, all the way through. My favorite allies. Sun and scratched CDs and gasoline and road-side motels and cowboy girls and rattlesnakes and Rattlesnake stories and growing up and memories and laughter and joints and gasoline and road-side motels and Indian holy places and dreams and hawks and the road straight ahead. It’s all ours – the world and the ideas and the music and the love. We write with our piss in the dirt, stagger in big cities and jump into mysterious lakes. Make a wish.