The driver is blinded by the glare from the setting sun as he weaves through the valley of forgotten men. He is a handful of dust, a squeeze of mud, miraculously alive like the Golem, propelled to do the bidding of habits scratched into his brain. Only the inertia of escape propels him.

The road unravels in front of the Lovetrucker, revealing the distances between the shanty towns of hope. The sinking lake of light illuminates this forlorn and gorgeous landscape, life’s great wilderness of possibility. Still he drives, a stranger to himself.

The road heaves and buckles as time shakes its weary mane, emerging from the past to stalk the stumbling man. Unaware of all, he sees the hell ahead and knows it forces choice. The mountains beckon like a lover, while the black coast and dismal inn lie dead ahead, shrouded in a veil of wings that flutter in the salty wind.