More Tales of Dirty Snow.

Sitting at a bar in Chicago, listening to tinny punk rock from speakers mounted over the Budweiser mirror, nursing an Old Milwaukee. Dirty snow on the ground as I walk the street like a bundled twerp comet, trailing my tail of cigarette smoke and half-hearted whispers of promises best left broken, trying to make every pretty girl I pass smile back at me.

The drive from Saint Louis was fast and quiet, long lonely snow flat against the earth, swimming through the fog like over-caffeinated sharks, all of our senses primed for fresh blood. Factories lit up like Philip K Dick Christmas trees belched plumes of steam and smoke high into the sky, looking like the pillars that prevent Heaven from crashing down upon us, splintering our bones and squeezing us into a homogeneous pulp with our trusted Toyota Corolla (though the worrisomely ambiguous and esoteric "check engine" light paid us an unwelcome visit) until the angels won't know where skin and meat end and upholstery and rubber and fiberglass and engine block begin.

Giant windmills, like terraforming complexes, stand gaunt, sentries in the mist and disappearing like skeletons into the foggy horizon. It's all so quiet, five hours of lonely rolling church service, satisfied finally with Illinois and her endless highways.

Where was I... Here I am in Murfreesboro, not yet a week prior. A welcome drive through Kentucky always softens my bristles. Eating fried chicken and catfish and pork chops and pondering the imponderable.

And the next morning, no sleep, head cloudy with green smoke and feeling like a velociraptor with black coffee blood, we left for Springfield. Descended like a circus troupe, bearing pocketknives and old guitars. Blurry hallucinations of a long night, too much drink and smoke, until I buried my face in torn red cushions and prayed for a quick death. A good night, spirits high and imbibed, trying in vain to suppress every worthless emotion that we've been doomed to bear.