And So We See Ourselves Where We Don't Want To Be
Fuck the roadside, culturally and ironically exploitative, novelty city of South Of The Border, that hangs from North Carolina's southern divide like a swollen red cyst from a broad chin, of which, at 2:28 am, is two thirds of the way through - what i assume to be one of 365 - a night of power consumption that must be using an amount in excess of what an average family home will in a month, to goddamned light the Carolinas, from Roanoke to Hilton Head, while It's not even open. It can't be open. Is it open?
The squat man in the large hat; brown, mustachioed and wrapped in a colorful pancho — he looks like he should be asked to show his papers, some documentation. Kinda luckily, safe from the cruel legislation of Alabama and deportation, he's plastering billboards, or cut from wood and whatnot and painted as the billboard itself.
Though I should be fucked as well, seeing as I'm driving a single body a distance that will amount to 2000 miles or more, to the beat of a single drum, and as I live in a condominium that does not recycle (the second in a row of such choices). Wasn't that made illegal? That can't be legal.
It's a fragile world, created by delicate decisions that we make with chainsaws and other combustion engines. It's a very fragile world, and when might our hands be as delicate as the decisions they make?