bari janaparh
The journey from the capital to the southern cities has an allegorical feel, especially when leaving through the equinoctial twilight. We speed along the straightaways through the floodplains beneath the summits of unattainability, then slow to twist and turn through the vale of woe, night and snow falling hard through the trees. We rise through a series of switchbacks, spiraling upwards to the pillar of righteousness, the storm growling, then abating reluctantly with each inch we drew closer to our destination.
During this trip I listen to the Enchiridion at least once and, depending on the speed of the car and the type of weather, sometimes more than once.