If he lies in bed, abstract asphalt blends in a potholed evening haze, blue criss-crossed maze, flowing between towns and cities and megalopolises as it sweeps the world.
Highways stand out in bold, self-important numbers, speckling exits and spanning states and nations, cutting swaths through vast white exapanse.
Specks of cites, people, places make his foot tap as he imagines the bass blasting out of the stereo he doesn't have, and barely penetreating hte highway's windy blast.
Mountains flare out in tiered relief, each escalation in colors another challenge to his itching brain.
Each blank expanse has whitecaps, and shifting clouds and the smell of salt, and each is an invitation, a chance to escape civilization's polluting glare.
His dreams are sweet.
He will fall asleep under every foreign sky, wake staring into each beautiful misty valley, and revel in every kind of waterfall mist a hundred times before he will leave his room.