You keep driving.  You don't remember who suggested it, or why.  What prompted you to leave the main highways for the back roads is anyone's guess – but you did.  Maybe there was construction, or an accident, or a traffic jam, or maybe it just seemed like a good idea.  You keep driving.  It's fuzzy when you look back.  What isn't fuzzy are the consequences – because it wasn't long after that when the GPS started to fail.  You tried following signs, but no matter which way you turned or which roads you ran down, a major highway never seemed to come back into sight, and the roads you travelled, you travelled alone – no other cars marred the open asphalt, just the four of you, in your car, for miles.  You keep driving.  What's more, the towns you began to find were not, to your knowledge, ever committed to a map, or at least no map you'd ever seen.  Beggar's Pass, Hob's End, Thistletown – all of these, and more, came and went and you were no closer to finding your way back to the world you'd known.  You keep driving.  The needle hovers above the E on the gas gauge, but it seems as though you've been on fumes for days now, and still the car drives.  You can't remember the last time you ate, but the hunger stays at bay, held back by… something, or possibly some thing.  You keep driving.  You keep driving.  You keep driving….

The Folds