Over the years, you've found your dreams increasingly populated by strip malls and stranded, boarded up gas stations surrounded by, well, nothing.
You find yourself wondering whether your dreams are infiltrating reality or the other way around whilst wandering down a tree-lined street on the outskirts of town. Suddenly the forest yields to another, completely unexpected, sprawl of liquor-stores and outlet shops. On the corner is a cozy little bar-and grill about as big as your living room. Thirty minutes later you resolve that you'll have to stop by there again, as they make a pretty impressive Philly cheese-steak.
But no experience was as surreal as the evening, during a road trip for a previous job, when you rubbed your bleary eyes and found yourself staying the night at a motel that, based on a quick look in every possible direction, was miles away from anywhere.
Lucky for you, you've always kept a spare bottle of whiskey in your briefcase in case this ever happened.
The floor-unit air conditioner hums and the television jabbers as you stare out the window at a flat, barren horizon. You throw back some whiskey and fight the urge to write a letter to every person you've ever done wrong in your life. You want to use the phone, but you know the phone bill will be deducted from your check, so you refrain.
Eventually you stumble downstairs to the little adjacent steakhouse that shares the same roof as the motel. The menu is a bit out of your price range, but you resolve to treat yourself to the most expensive thing on there.
Because, for all you know, it's the end of the world.
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