the traffic roared above as he lit his last cigarette. not being much of a smoker the habit would be easy and necessary to quit. the weight of it all could drive a person mad, even to suicide. this couldnt be drank away, no amount of victory gin or uncle jemimahs would help. its not that the answers he got were toubling or inconcise, it was the slow deterioration of his mind that bothered him the most. he left a bit of himself in that empty lot under the swirling clouds that night. there wasnt a soul around that could be a witness to the events but he wasnt alone. yelling at the presence seemed to arouse a response in the form of lightning. he made this storm, it was his and it was deadly. a 40oz bottle streaks across the bare plot and crashes into a backhoe. tossing aside all the luxuries and anemities his lifestyle includes, he crawls up to the edge of the interstate only feet from the stream of vehicles and decides that blankets fresh out of the dryer were his favorite thing in life and *that* truck was the one he had been waiting for..