I wake up early to drink wine and hike out into the fog. I climb rusted stairs and ride the monorail of death through pink clouds. I am the only passenger on the car. The a/c is loud and frosty and makes my teeth ache. I wind another layer of duct tape around the stock of my rifle and hunt wild game across the abandoned parking lots of America. I carry a dog-earred picture of my father in my breast pocket. I visit the old addresses of young women I used to know. In my head, every direction is congested with people going away. In my eyes, weeds rise up and do nothing to detract from the emptiness.