There doesn’t seem to be anything here!
A steady diet of gas station coffee, bananas, and liquor will keep you in fighting shape for no longer than two days. After this amount of time has passed, it will become increasingly difficult to negotiate a stairwell without injury or maintain a decent grasp on the events of the last several hours. Radical nutritional intervention may become necessary.
Its important to keep a variety of formal wear on hand if you’re going to live the life of a degenerate. A smart blazer or tie will assist you in concealing the unfortunate affliction of being down and out from society with far greater success than sunglasses or a good nights sleep ever could. When you are discovered by the police fist fighting a pile of broken glass outside of an apartment complex that, on closer inspection, isn’t actually your own, or ranting incoherently to your drinking buddies due to the unfortunate lack of friends you are suddenly burdened with, it is much more likely to be considered an unfortunate side effect of legs weary from too much time spent being upstanding if you’re well versed in the gentlemanly art of the half windsor.
It is the nature of the Horror to keep you running, as its power over you is greatest precisely at the moment when you believe yourself to be out of its reach. With thoughts along the lines of “the sunrise must be just over that next hill” you find yourself continuing onwards filled with hope that, despite all evidence to the contrary, if you can manage to put enough distance between yourself and the scene of the last moment of great disappointment or happiness, you will manage to escape its lingering results. Unfortunately, the Horror has a number of resources at its disposal, including an eye for the long term. As its voice gradually fades into a distant memory and you realize it’s been days since you unconsciously found yourself doing its work even in its absence, tearing yourself down with great gusto and withering invective until all you can manage to do is shave another seven minutes off your life on the porch, it is biding its time.
Like the callouses on your fingers or keeping a regular schedule, as time goes on you grow inured to repeated injury. The Horror is, as a result of its destructive goals, is fully aware of this fact. Bear like it hibernates, allowing you to run up the odometer until you’re somewhere just past Maybe Far Enough, until you’ve reached the ocean. Until you have no choice but to start swimming or turn back, or at least change direction equipped with the unsettling knowledge that all roads come to an end and will therefore force some manner of repetition on you. Once you are on these no longer novel roads and homeward bound a terrible discovery becomes increasingly necessary. Check the back seat.
I’m drunker than usual, so I’m just going to go ahead and ask:
Was it drunk driving when I held the wheel for you because you were the designated driver and wanted to take a a couple hits between bars? I swore I’d never do it again, but it’s become incredibly clear that that is a promise I can never keep.