There once was a pilgrim who had heard that out West, past the last town, there was a place where a man could find anything.
Gold, maybe. Or freedom. Or at least a really good slice of pie.
So he walked the highway. Mile after mile of asphalt, cactus and sky, until the mesas turned red and the white line at his feet seemed to run straight into the stars.
A diner by the road.
A motel with one light on.
A neon star, waiting to be switched on.
This was it, the pilgrim thought. This was the frontier. Out here, everything is possible.
The diner was closed.
The chairs were up on the tables. The pie case was empty. The coffee in the pot was cold and had opinions.
On the diner roof, next to the dark neon star, a small black box blinked blue, broadcasting free Wi-Fi to the tumbleweeds.
No trucks passed. No one waved. The highway just kept going, the way highways do, not particularly caring whether anyone was on it.
And slowly, the pilgrim understood.
Not every road trip ends at a landmark.
Not every frontier has something behind it.
Sometimes the West is just a lot of sand.
This is no gold mine. No promised land. No legend of the open road.
It is a closed diner on a long highway.
Nothing more.
So, Partner —
There is no gold out here.
No pie.
No sunset worth riding into.
The diner is closed. The kitchen is cold.
Go home, pilgrim.
And the highway, at last, was quiet.