Something that wants to be in progress and is not connecting to itself, even yet. I've no idea...
Rough from the road, walking in as if you own the place, maybe you do, maybe you're persona non grata now but you owned, in one figure of speech or another, this place in some not-so-distant past...

Maybe, maybe. Memories and questions aren't for this hand. Hence long back dirt roads, the spines of range and treeline rising in the distance. Miles from anywhere the venom might concentrate, and yet, you feel it, distant under-currents thrumming.

Damn it to hell. Kicking gravel with one well-worn toe, you reflect on this place, scummy little bar really in the middle of nowhere, but not so much, the edges of another city reach out, they always do, always encroaching, greedy, hungry, nasty fucking tendrils. Sure an' life breeds spread, but this? This, this shit's like some crackho well past her prime legs spread in the doorway of the worst roach motel plus some you ever fuckin' saw and this shit's, this shit's...Nasty. You'd touch her first, you'd touch her with open wounds on y' and no cover whatsoever before you'd willingly take on the backwaters, the boardrooms, toxic breath and waste and sprawl, this encroaching minutiae of the humanity that so misrepresents everything around you, about y'.

Right, fuckit. Enough goddamn thought, just like them, always, can't escape the rat hole, let's have a drink.