We knew not where we were going, only that we were going. People looked at us as if we were ghosts, as if were figments of their imagination. I would order toast and coffee at those diners along the 1 down to LA and those backroad waitresses would stare at me in a kind of genuine disbelief, almost making me think I wasn't real. Perry, she said she woke up one morning, I don't know where we were or how we even paid for the room, but she said she looked in the mirror after waking from some TM sleep trick she was ******* around with, and said she only saw half of herself. I asked her what the hell she meant and she said it was like looking through a linen sheet hanging on laundry line with the sun bright behind it. Like I was fading right before my very eyes, she'd said in a fo' southern bell accent. She shrugged and laughed as she finished putting on her cherry red lipstick, smelling of apricot jam and American Spirit cigarettes. Maybe that's what happens when you're moving as far and as long as fast as we were: you start to fade.