A13 is a lucky road; in this early light, splintered, engorged by redness,
blood-mess, Turner-melt. An undeviating sun franchise. Liquid gold. Like
a drench. A transfusion. The veins stood out in Norton’s shoulder.
You could see the nest of them pulsing beneath his cheap jacket. Out here,
the missing slabs of the map didn’t matter: everything was missing.
Everything was transitional, a series of flats, slatted hoardings that
transformed luxury vehicles into obtrusively-breasted young women. Real
buildings, ex-industrial, were less convincing than the replicas: deserts,
oceans, gas stations in New Mexico.