There’s a town you’ve probably seen before, the kind of back-road backdrop tucked
away like a dirt-splattered blanket. The sky is a gallery of malnourished figurines,
clouds that illuminate like 100 foot long skeleton, worming over a highway of blank
faces. There are a block of businesses; a bank, a bar, a barbershop, a row of old
southern colonial homes, two gas stations, a diner, a rifle exchange, and a Walmart.
Employees with eternal facial expressions. Some with fake plastic smiles, some with
honest grimace, some with a volatile cocktail mixture of both, interchangeably. A
township where all of your dreams go to die, and all of the lives must cut their
mourning to a minimum. This is the plain where the kids who were taught that
imagination is a menace and that life is paved in grime and stress, a workplace is