miles and miles of highway, the impenetrable wall of cars, and the largest flag, stars and stripes, draped over the burning road, the arc wire of displacement that i cannot wait to carry me on and on and on. you can feel and see and taste it, visceral, as palpable as the regulation tan bricks that make the whole place a landmarkless, remarkless, a monochrome american dream. sky broad and proud, amber waves planted in perfect, ornamental rows in tan brick boxes. the land of sweet freedom. which sport utility car to drive, mailbox black or white, 2 kids or 3, football or baseball. sweet, sweet freedom. no wonder they call it sugarland. really, no wonder. just sugar.