Bumfuck Nowhere

On the road to Bumfuck Nowhere, out, way out, where there’s nothing and nobody.

Where you’ll always find something even when you go looking for nothing. Like relentless heat and cheap liquor. Broken vending machines and signs that point to God. You’ll smell burnt rubber and freshly rolled tobacco. You’ll hear crows squawking and cattle mooing. You’ll find dead things and living things, and you can’t always tell which is which. You’ll find all sorts of characters. Mostly those who don’t talk much, except to tell you how they wound up in Bumfuck Nowhere: whether they came looking for answers or to forget the question in the first place.

Out in Bumfuck Nowhere things tend to feel a little sharper. Like sand whipping against your face or tequila burning down your throat or the sun beating against your back. You’ll wear cowboy boots and old faded Levis and a Stetson hat even if you’re just passing through, because it feels right and it’s not like anyone really gives a damn who you are outside of this place. You’ll watch clouds roll in and see themselves out. You’ll find yourself waiting for something you know isn’t coming, and that makes time feel like a funny thing. Bumfuck Nowheres are the kinds of places for the kinds of people who can take emptiness and find countless ways to fill it. Sometimes, these are the places I like to go.