Somewhere between Pecos and Carlsbad. Flat, dry nothing. Then suddenly — a city. Not a town. A work camp scaled up.
Hundreds of white trucks, all filthy, all loaded down. Men in scarves pulled up to their eyes. Dust everywhere.
Two gas stations — both slammed. Greasy lunch pulled from a hot case. No time to sit. No restaurants. No sidewalks. No homes.
Just fuel, function, and the kind of exhaustion you cain’t put a name to.
The only women out here are behind the counter. Cashiers. Quiet. Watchful.
It’s not rural. It’s not urban. It’s something else — dystopian industrial. The loneliness is palpable. Funny thing, I’ve always preferred these hard-working blue collar men to the soft-skinned white collar fellas. I should talk with my therapist about that.
A male-only settlement where the purpose is clear — extract, survive, repeat. Everything else is secondary. No softness. No permanence.
Just speed, grit, and the kind of order that holds until it don’t no more. Subscribe to follow my travels. Paid monthly subscription of $7 a month gets you the deeper secrets.
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