In this season of the Twelfth Night, could this be what my jarring dream meant? I am not what I seem to be either, a fool for disguises, disguised to myself. What foolery in a journey of a 1,000 miles.
It's about 4:00 a.m. at a Love's truck stop in eastern Tennessee off Interstate 40. Diners seem to whisper this time of night. Shoppers in the truck stop quietly shuffle. Staying up all night saves me money and from sleeping outside in a cheap, freezing sleeping bag.