The train takes a heavy toll on a man. There is some discussion to be had about it, but having just crossed the threshold of the West, I feel changed. Nausea and preoccupation with both intake and silence have prevented me from writing, just as I supposed, but here, in this barren wasteland, I feel both alien and changed. Liminal transitions. I believe that is the correct terminology.
Little can be described of this place, a mere saloon, but I am finding an odd comfort here. The host is kind, if short, and the accommodations are meager and welcome. Opulence has drained from me long ago, and the simple idea of only a bed with sheets and possibly stale rain water to slack my thirst is a good one. Sleep hit me hard, and was dreamless: a welcome reprieve from my time on the train.
A hunger aches in me that I can’t sate until I have completed my task, but mostly because I am so low on rations. I have but one cube of hash left, a mere ounce of heroin, and my standard prescriptions are at their dregs. I will have to occupy my time with activity and lots of food. A different hunger, less subtle, but all the same, satisfying. Also, the atrocious wall decor has shaken something lose in me, perhaps. I can’t quite pin down whether I am a victim of too much travel already or if the strangeness of this place is really that true.
I have stared into the visage of a beast of hell, and have found it pleasantly unsettling. Gagging would not suffice as a reaction, and neither would simple staring. I cannot decide whether I will be able to face it, or if I should take up crossing myself in the hopes it will either be gone or be improved. I should inquire about that beast.
I should also inquire about this Farragut man, who remains, as yet, a mystery in plain sight.