The last train for the night has left.

Hoards of crumpled navy-suited boys

Stenciled geriatric graffiti

Taking in the hologram lights

I descended into the cavernous tube of running drunks.

What is this, a raid?

So I ran, too.

Boring down an unknown radius into the ground and shuffling out again. Heavily accented and deranged, we all stampeded to the bus stop now overflowing with electric ants.

A sideways stepping clubby sips on his McD’s soda, eyes half-shut. A homeless man with an impeccably proper British accent requests change. He has none. Hands him his soda. The homeless man obliges, sips on.

The entirety of this country is filled with Sunday drivers, the type of folks who venture to the National Park for the sole purpose of driving through it.

A rolling prowl on the lookout for more roadside pie purveyors.
rays of the partitioned sun projecting a yes.