Venice, a city in which people marvel and gather at its splendor of culture, architecture, and cuisine.  Yet, none of these aspects truly display how glorious and awe inspiring this locale is until two miniscule nonentities, totally unaware of each other begin to engage in conversation.  Who they are and under what circumstances they met is of no importance, but their chaotic meeting is.  While their meeting is not entirely random due to the fact they are both Americans, and regardless of what the books say, likes will seek out themselves, the exchange of speech begins in total obscurity.  Nonsensical blurbs that neither of them have any consideration for are spoken, not because of a will to talk, but because they’re both panning through the silt of each other’s knowledge, trying to find the golden nugget of what united them.  Eventually they stumble across it when one of them mentions that they hail from Chicago.  The unnamable other views this as an invitations to name their hometown and responds joyously with a single word of importance suffocated in an unnecessary phrase.  That one quintessential item, the aforementioned nugget of randomness and unification simply was, “Irons.”  The nonentity’s hometown.
The other conversation holder is taken back by the name of the town.  They’ve heard it only once before, providing more than enough memory to recall why it’s important.
“Do you know an Adam Long?”
The one with origins in Irons is as taken aback the name of the person as the other was by the name of the town.
“Yes, I used to know him very well.”
“Wow, what are the odds we’d actually meet.  I used to go school with Adam in Chicago, before he moved to Irons.  How is he?”
Looking nonplussed, the Irons native’s tongue stumbles over the out coming words as though saliva is no different than quicksilver.
“I don’t know,” eventually spills from their mouth onto the wet, Italian cobblestone, dampened by a nearby fountain.  “I haven’t seen him since I graduated.  That was about, I’m going to say,” she adds, pushing her fingertips through her hair as far as it will allow, for it is indeed a she.  “about six months ago.  I left for Europe a month ago, and nobody had heard anything about him by the time I left.”
Their purpose for meeting was finally staggered upon with respect for its intricacy on par with a drunkard.  The journey was greater than the destination, and so whatever interest they had found in each other was now past the ineffable reasons the universe had and now at a completely earthly level.
“Oh, that’s a shame.”  He says, for he is indeed a he.  A he who has already forgotten whatever he’s pretending to be mournful for.  So they talk and what have you, about the city, about their hometowns, never again mentioning the keen point of importance that rested with some colloidal being named Adam Long.

Adam, for the record, would happen to be me.  That’s right, this is in the classification of first-person narrative, but that begs the question, what called for the entirely non sequitor introduction.  A simple question with a simpler answer:  There was no reason for it.  
Think long and intently about all the music you’ve sampled in your life.  Now take inventory of which songs are entirely nonsensical and follow now schema at all.  Quite a dazzling array, isn’t there?  For some reason it’s all well and good for a writer of music to be ludicrous in there alliance with a pen, but a shaper of literature is not allowed the privilege of eccentricity in their works.  I suppose when it’s taken into consideration, the reasons why do make sense.  I mean, after all, with all the women, drug induced elation, respect, and lusciously satisfying to hand and wallet cash, who has the fortitude to actually work at what they do?
But I digress.  While these words now committed to paper are about the qualms I have with what I see, they also heavily involve my passions I find.  Ah, but where are these passions to be found?  I’ve heard of some seeking them in the solitudes of the wilderness.  Tropical islands, desert outbacks, all have been done, and most have given what their invaders came looking for.  America tends to offer fewer options for an isolated wilderness, forcing its hunter to create one out of its one, still untamable resource.  The Road.  As these wisps of notions pass through my mind, I pass wisps of dust stirring themselves from the prairie, possibly the imaginings of the planet, wondering what to make of God knows what bothers the planet.  Perhaps it’s worrying about running out of gas, which seems to be a fairly reasonable concern, at least to someone like me, whose gas gauge’s needle is in danger of breaking off.  Pulling into some dire, plains apparition of a gas station, the car rolls in and seems to sigh with me at the relief of having another day be assured to us.  I have no idea what type of car it is.  I’ve never been one for mechanical knowledge, and while I could just as easily observe the steel label emblazoned on the car’s rear, I will just as easily refuse to do so.  Any name given to the car in a manufacturing plant wouldn’t describe what it truly was.  A Titan above all elements.  And this would be the moment where it chooses to die of its own accord all together.  No matter though, we’re in our sanctuary at least.
I got out of the car, arching my spine back and forward, which serves a dual purpose.  One being that it allows me to push everything my back consists of into place, and two being that it permits me to peer through the chipped and darkened by age window of the gas station to see if any attendant available.  The absence of any other person declares me the master of this oasis of raw resource by default, and choosing to use my new duties as master wisely, examining the gas pump would be the obvious thing for me to do to the untrained mind.  However, there is one minor flaw.  The pump doesn’t work.  Why?  But of course, because the vandals stole the handle.