The streets around us are dark and quiet, but we whirl around them a nucleus of yelling and music, the energetic nonchalance of youth in glowing orbit around us. The Utah roads, in their empty intersections and lonely highway ramps connecting a whole foreign world between the miles of our trip, I do not know and neither do we as we make u-turns and cut across lanes to correct deviating routes. The songs we blast I barely know, harkening back to the childhood and time spent with friends I remember only secondhand from cycling workouts and rallywagon rides. The people, too, are wanderers like I’ve become, far from the paradisiacal bubble I called home, united for a moment in our journeys. But isn’t that all there is to life anyways? I feel unrooted but grounded, wandering but still. I feel alive in a most empty way, or perhaps empty in a most alive way. We return and I lie on the carpet, the sugar of a popsicle from the run fighting a momentarily winning battle in an inevitably lost war against the late hour.