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As his mouth flooded with that horrible sweet-purple taste, he could actually see those grapes—dull, dusty, obese and nasty, crawling up a dirty stucco wall in a thick, syrupy sunlight that was silent except for the stupid buzz of many flies.
He could not say goodbye to these three rooms as he could to a house he had loved: hotel rooms accepted departures emotionlessly.
the first thing he would see would be a set of McDonald’s golden arches—what his mother called The Great Tits of America.
I’LL BE A SUNBEAM FOR JESUS.
Way back there, a drip began to deliver the goodies.
