On a Saturday night in town, the light of a KFC washes over the sidewalk, spilling into the road. It’s biblical. Fantastical. Only, it’s merely a mirage. There’s no heavenly KFC, just the light from an electrical store that does nothing other than offer false promises to strangers wandering about wasting time when time is the only thing we have left. Sometimes there’s love. Sometimes it’s real. Most of the time it’s merely a white flag. A symbolic gesture letting others know we’ve given up seeking the answers we once sought above all else because the truth is lonely, and it hurts, and leaves us miles from anywhere, and who wants that? The church that approaches us as we squint our eyes against the harsh moonlight is biblical too, as you’d expect. Walking hand in hand, we skip about the gravestones as if they were skipping stones to Adventureland. Y’know, the arcade by the beach where the promise of sex and drugs are as tangible and repugnant as the dirty promises slipping between the lips of lovers desperate to keep the night alive before the magic sinks like shit down a u-bend. The names on the gravestones never change, only with each passing year, the letters fade a little bit more, until one day, they become abstract patterns like the bark on a tree or the spirals of ivy clinging to the ruins of a castle overlooking a beach by the sea.