This truck stop: rancid gravy. A man with no hands waving. and the dog 'round my leg bumps and grinds. It rains for miles out there. on mud and tar and still air.
Here he comes, in the dead of the month. His hair falling out, his shoulders hunched. Secure with his Third World expectation. [...] open sewers of degredation.
i'm here on a mission. to tell you exactly what can go wrong if you're not careful. you see, it's like this:. you're running down the staircase at random.