this is what kafka really meant when he wished to be a red indian

Every now and again, you examine the ground before you, very jerkily, because you are not on a racing horse, but behind the wheel of a chevy malibu on a dirt road on a reservation. You are leaning with the wind because you want your hair to cover your eyes, so you could pretend you were on a racing horse. You are instantly alert because your brother, who is driving, could hit a racing horse who may be crossing the road before you. You are not wearing any spurs—you do not need any reins. The racing horse will take you to a place where the land that was once gone is ours now back and your horse’s neck and head are actually yours.