I woke up from my stupor to the sound of windshield wipers squeaking before me. The windshield is an oscillation between the image of dotted water and smeared water, in both cases distorting field of vision in front of us, the midnight highway, a dark canvas punctured by half a dozen pairs of headlights every now and then. The only other light sources are from the dashboard, from which faintly audible music is heard. I look to my right and saw a big truck that we were passing by.
Its huge headlights emitted a beam of light made visible by the rain.
All this made my wakeful state questionable. Was I really awake? It was too peaceful, too surreal. I looked out to the side window again and found that we'd passed the truck and that it was just darkness again. The sound of the tires rolling on the wet highway made for a soothing background noise. The squeaking sound of the wipers simply added more to the tranquility of the drive. I looked at my driver for a moment, who was engrossed in the driving. I don't know how she does it; driving itself was a soporific task for me. She noticed my stirring, looked at me for a moment, and then commented that I'd missed the part where it was snowing as we drove through the little mountains of Vermont. But then silence returned, at least the one accompanied by the humming sound in the background.
So I slumped back down in my seat, and allowed the wipers, which were visible against the reflection of our headlight's lights against the rain, hypnotize me back into my sleep.
