A little road can make a big difference. Dirt, concrete, brick, gravel, or stones. As on a map, the lines say nothing. They are just lines. The actual roads might talk to each other when no one's around. They might talk about freedom and independence. They might talk about failure and tragedy.
Only roads know what roads go through. They are a kindred spirit, they are somehow all connected. They have dents and holes, skids and blood, love and litter. Mostly, they hum. Each it's own hum, for no two hums can, or should be, exactly the same. They all have different sounds, trips are like symphonies, except on the Interstate.
That's just loud racquet, not worth the trouble, not worth the sadness, not worth the speed. All time should be enjoyed, especially time on roads, otherwise, stay home. There is enjoyment there too, where the hearts are, memories made, pride busting, the friendly. Patio birds and butterflies. Dreams and mist. Words.