You will feel the heat radiating as you leave Kent. You will see the glow as you crest and descend rolling Pennsylvania mountains. The light behind the trees will cast long shadows as you wind around the crooks and bends of I-80. Closer and closer, brighter and brighter.
New Jersey will pass by [thankfully] like a blur, for your eyes will be swallowed whole by the pulsing ember across the estuary of the Hudson. The beacon will shine into the heavens, casting a spectrum like aurora borealis, a wafty wave streaking comet-like across the night sky. This falling star will never fade. It only serves to guide you across one border, then another, then another. One bridge, then another.
Soon you will be standing before the pillar of light three-thousand feet tall. The art nouveau elevator is powered by bellows, great tufts of air that lift you up, up, up.
Atop the spire.
Exactly where you belong.
It is warm here.