A man walks on the shoulder of highway whatever. At the top of a small knoll in the road, he is silhouetted against the infinite darkness each time a car drives by. The headlights burn into his back and illuminate the path ahead. Each rain drop seems to reflect an individual sorrow the driver cannot see. Each drop falls onto the sandpaper-pavement adding traction to an otherwise slippery walk from and to. There are no destinations for a man tonight. His hopes of salvation fell down under the horizon when the sun set. This is something even a firm thumb and a kind smile will not get him out of.
At midnight by a man’s estimation, a gas station, closed for the night, comes into sight. The back light is on to ward off would be crooks. A man is not a crook, though. He is more like a moth drawn towards the lamp-light. A man will not get burned tonight, however. He is lost. He is lonely. He is sad. But he is not doomed. Not tonight, at least.
Next to the bundles of damp firewood and stacks of salt licks and between purple bottles of windshield washer fluid and the front door, a man sits down to rest his sore feet. His socks are damp and he wonders if he should take his shoes off. Is he going to walk anymore tonight? Or is this a good enough place to shiver for a few hours before moving on? He removes his shoes and sets them beneath his seat to insulate his aching tailbone from the chilling cement sidewalk fronting the gas station. A man pulls his tattered fedora down so that it rests upon his nose. He breaths deep the cold air of the wet night and hugs himself hard to warm his core. At this moment he is too tired to think of where he wishes he could be.