I’m in Nashville, on a strange mission. I wanted to find a notebook so that I could write stuff down. But they ain’t no notebooks in Nashville, least not at the places I checked. All I can find is an autograph book with multi-colored pages. I suppose that this fact is significant in some way.
Danged thing cost me three bucks, too, and the cashier had the longest, fakest nails I’d ever seen. I was worried she’d open one of my arteries when she passed me my change. But now I can walk around and make pithy comments into my surreal notebook.