This tree is really something in a row with other trees the space between each roughly equal. Textually runny boulevards. The business park is a labeled organ and each pest is a scalpel. Elsewhere fluids suck bedness from the walkways cloud-gists pump across the Quik Stop window. Where to go. What is cheap. A lit-up spoon and bowl emporium retrofitted with cracking chairs from the weedy railside. The screen secondarily serving as mirror removes typical revulsion. Jams of paper and traffic and blood and raspberries. The man basks on a dusty wave prepared to lose it.

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Sometimes to think of a place is to think of pillowy fragments. Sometimes to attempt to think of an entire place is to realize you can only think of fragments, but now the fragments are harder.