In the hall there was his tunnel vision‹strip lighting above length of line-patterned carpeting, walls of doors and doors. At night on the Florida Turnpike, he considered, distant headlights light distant rows of the bordering trees, crowded, bark-bare. Dump trucks entering the highway come up close behind and sniff at your tail like big-faced bulldogs, then settle back or pass with a breath of dirt from ancient depths. For a little while tonight on the road, it was looking like another long, damp night of the soul; fortunately he escaped. He was fortunate; the night was fortunate‹he suspected, frankly, that misery likes people¹s company no more than people like misery¹s.
Path: Keys