The men's washroom has 4 stalls, 2 urinals, 5 sinks, 1 shoe polish machine, and poor ventilation. Employees bring newspapers, magazines, books, and cellphones into the stalls. I always wonder how one conducts an important conversation while loudly defecating, or contracting one last wet lump from the bowels. Sometimes I go there to take a nap. I usually wake from my daze sweating, shocked by the sounds of grunts and splashes. I have to endure another's stench for a few extra moments before I exit, as I usually have a big red mark on my forehead from sleepeing on my arm. Usually it looks like Tennessee.

I have a spot where the highway passes over train tracks. I go there on bad days, usually to cool off, relax, and vent some steam before reentering society. It's a filthy place, with discarded bottles, broken glass, children's clothing, dirty matresses, dead animals, cigarette butts, bits of tin foil, and lots of graffiti. I stand between giant concrete supports and practice my pitching arm with empty bottles. (I usually bring or sixer or twelver there, and lots of cigarettes.) The trains echo mountains of sound that shake the air, and the lights are giant fireflys with outboard motors. Lovely. The tracks are laid atop colorful limestone shards, some laced with granite, and I usually bring a pretty one back to my apartment after each visit. The tracks are an ugly place, but I love it there.
1:32 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm