Morning presents itself assa splitting headache. Drawn and scaled and printed and flattened. Illinois, pale tobacco stain yellow, and its commercial tributaries parallel lined blue. Even such a depiction as this screams malcontent in design, dis-ease in the roaded disarray.

Haddonfield is unavoidable, in direction or direction of intent. What has begun will not relent until made to do so.

Almost assif sarcasm were a factor, the good preacher's traveling show pulls in a massive, uncomplaining and proffering draw. Ox-man informs me of his gig's tour stops. I can join him in the festivites twice more before turning northward to Michigan.

I am paid the wages of three. There is no argument. I am even comped a night inna motel room, which will be my first hot shower in over a month. Second floor, window and door overlooking the scenic highway, gas station and fast food franchises.

Trekking in hot greasy foods across the threshold, I am greeted with the polyester uniformity of interior design massacre. Even as a basic floorplan nothing is convenient. Not that I will suffer - no excess bags, no will to turn on the standard television. Coffee set to drip upon flick of groggy switch. Razor ready.

Briefly the image reflected over the basin matches nothing. Alien landscape of volcanic activity with greenscreen sky. It persists with more lights blazing. Returning to the bed for my wrappered meal, I offer a prayer to Patricia's god with physical motion and wordless whispers. Petrochemical curtains drawn open to embrace the night, lingering streamers of tailights and turn signals redden the roadway. A couple in their fifties maybe are fighting in the parking lot a building over. From my vantage point police cruisers can be spied, vehicles yawning lazy and incredulous. Fan housing rattles, layers of paint cushioning metallic fins, playing counterpoint to my fried fish sandwiches' waxed paper. Acute sensation that the crispy breading crushing underneath molars is also symbolic of doubt being eradicated and repurposed.

Brussels sprouts wheeze in their steamy microwave bag. Voices garbled through wall. Voices garbled from somewhere much closer, but unseen. They are speaking to me, but I am not listening - propagandists get no airtime in this totalitarian regime.

Scraping away the grey hairs from my cheeks my face keeps wavering - a fluid ripple that a child's thrown stones ignites to radiating distortion, illuminated harshly by the hot disinfecting radiance pouring from the shower stall. Enameled warmth beckons for over an hour.

Thoughts loosen and drain.

Bruises purple and cuts define their edges. No chatter, no retreat, no surrender.

Muscles' frame exhausted from knowing its not enough to be tired. The dreams will invade as always. Hypervigilance even in slumber.

Chewing the last fish sandwich, I deliberately concentrate on primary colors while sitting in the dark, film-noir flashing signs marking crime dramas across the bedspread. This battlefield shall be concieved in fingerpaint and breadcrumbs.