sam and i hung out the other night and spent a few hours walking those mysterious dead highway ramps, the lonely stillborns of bad urban planning. we explored their sad dynamic of contradiction. the herculean weeds pressing towards rebirth, the rotting artifacts. like the contents of donald spear’s wallet including his ymca membership card, due to expire in ’94. the full set of rusting brakes. the shredded kite. surely these pieces of road come alive late at night, with the ghosts of the maybes and the almosts. invited guests are all the cars who never made it past the prototype room. and anyone who ever picnicked in no man’s land. and all the donalds who officially lost their identification somewhere around ’93, but never really had a clue as to who they were supposed to be in the first place.