my sweet cheeriot. love my cherriot. my cherriot is freedom. i go farther.

i was right here yesterday talking about the insanity of the autopilots, and the old who associate their driver's license with their freedom, and i remember my first car, which was a deep red cruiser, like a red wide-bottom boat of the american road, and it was my first apartment on wheels still within the radius of home rule, which was my freedom, subject to the police of course. i said though now i associate my freedom with the absence of cars, and i haven't driven since 1984, which is the real significance of that year, for me, though i'm still subject to the autopilots, the rage of the machine, the police. it was a different world i started driving in, in the town of lilacs, west of the big city. every freedom is conditional, or relative, or illusory. the illusory freedoms are the most trouble.