This is a story about you. You live in a trailer, out near the Car Lot, next to Old Woman Josie’s house. Occasionally, she’ll wave at you on her way out to get the mail or more snacks for the Angels. Occasionally, you’ll wave back.
You’re not a terrible neighbor, as far as it goes. At night, you can see the red light blinking on and off on top of the radio tower. A tiny flurry of human activity against the impeccable backdrop of stars and void. You’ll sit out on the steps of your trailer, with your back to the brightness of the Car Lot, watching the radio tower for hours. But only sometimes. Mostly, you do other things.
This story is about you. You didn’t always live in Night Vale. You lived somewhere else, where there were more trees, more water. You wrote direct mail campaigns for companies, selling their products. “Dear resident,” you wrote often. “Finally, some good news in this dreary world! At last, a reason not to kill yourself!” Then you would delete that and write something else, and it would be sent out, and it would not be read by anyone.
You had a friend, and then a girlfriend, and then a fiancee – the same person. She cooked dinner sometimes, but sometimes you cooked.
