In the last coupla months I’ve been drawn eastwards across North America. Not by spiritual elastic or homing instinct, by an unseen hand pre-illustrating my actions on the back of a bar tab. Their half-assed mate the narrator has scripted the whole thing. I am puppet. Out of control. Lost in a world of Denny’s, Wendys, Taco Bell. The nylon tabards on bright skinny waitresses hide golden wings as they pour watered down cups of love. The greasy old oilmen with two chocolates on the pillow-talk ring fiery alarms. The Road is the only reliable witness of this desperate waistband, overpassing the cheap dramas of contemporary American life, understating the interstate. It follows me, recording my descent into Walmart, hallowed by thy name. So much choice leads the masses to confusion and chaos, unable to act calmly should the grape jelly run out. This, they say, is Superpower.
sent 31st August 2015