Kinda feels like the less people have, the more they're doin' the right thing sharin' what they got anyway. But, well, maybe these people have a lot, actually. Lotta land out here an' nobody tryin' to take it all away.

[But they don't have cars, or electricity, or money, so by his standards they don't have much. It's like those beaver trappers they met out east, those were Indians too, and then people like Nesry, or that prohibition town where he was making friends with all the black people who had been shunned of to one side of the place. His friends back home, too. The less people have, maybe the better they are at making friends, sticking together, relying on each other.

Not that he'd ever advocate for giving shit up. He's happy with whatever he has, but obviously he's no fucking hermit who wants to go live in the woods and shoot ducks, not really.

Back at the bike, he tosses his lighter and cigarettes in a saddlebag for now just so they're not uncomfortably lumpy underneath him, then sighs contentedly as he stretches out on the grass with his jacket underneath his head, and holds an arm out for her to curl up next to him.]

I'd get bored here too long though. So I hope tomorrow we go forward, not even farther back.