“The time at the third tone will be… sev-en… for-tee… wun… and… thur-tee… three… seconds.” When mechanical voices sound more inviting to you than anything else, you might try to take a look at where you’re going. Outside, rain drops like fat flower petals wisped themselves over my window. I sat on the edge of my dusty cardboard box of a mattress. It was practically a cot. Of course, none of these things were specifically mine. They were the property of the hardly prestigious Camelot Rest Stop Motel and Diner. Roaches wouldn’t eat at this fucking place. You practically had to arm yourself to go down the concrete walkway to get ice. Green, sterile, fluorescent lights drowned the outside of the structure in a view of concentrated sickness. And wasn’t that what this place was? Sickness. It’s a cancer sore on the back of this world. So far off from anything reasonable or sane. And that was why I was here. I wanted to be here. I wasn’t looking for myself, or the real America, or any of that shit.