When you get in the car for a solo highway trip, like the Albuquerque/Santa Fe stretch we know, it's like entering your own personal therapy bubble. Aside from the minor distractions of left-lane bozos or a stop for cheap gas at one of the Pueblos, you have time to put on some music, unpack your soul, and see if it's condition is to your liking. Doctors Lewis, Davo and Jon are here to help. They are your pole stars, your archetypes, your native guides. You're in good hands. Jon exemplifies both well-rooted strength, and relentless rejection of the superficial. His senses never sleep. In harness here, he's a good puller for sure, but he's also that rare one who can smell water twenty miles away, and lead you there before it's too late. Davo in the white robes of rock purity, the archer who's never content with less than a bull's-eye, hitting the exact center of the drum in the exact center of time. The effort required to do this, to make the target bristle with arrows like a shaving brush, never shows. And Lewis. If he were a dog (and I think the dogs did get together once and grant him an honorary degree), he'd be the best damn all-hunting, all-fishing dog you ever had. One that wants to catch that filthy frisbee just once more - hmm, maybe with a half-somersault this time - though his bleeding tongue hangs clear to the ground. One that's always showing some young dog how to surf a bunch of sheep. One unafraid to fight a bigger dog, or a pack of bigger dogs, or a bear, or a whole numb and conformist society of dog-bears in expensive suits. One is tempted, in fact, to call Lewis the Top Dog. But that wouldn't be right, because we all know who wears that crown - it's you, you there in the car, you're the top dog. Remember now? Our good Doctors leave you, your exit's coming up. Time to tuck in your soul and screw your town face back on. You'll roll in with jets aligned, tubes glowing, strings tight. Ready for whatever's next.