A sign over the bar at the Dune Saloon says Be Good or Be Gone. The bartender’s shirt says If I Wanted to Listen to An Asshole I’d Fart. The waitress is young, maybe my age, with black hair, perfect skin and a hideous car-sized hippie medallion hanging from a string on her neck. Between orders she stands at the bar and smokes and cracks wise with the old men on bar stools. There is a jukebox in the corner but no music. On my table are some rocks and a marble composition notebook purchased at a general store across the street. A hundred blank pages. I order food. I start writing.