The door rings for the seventh time in the minute. People shuffle for roadside provisions at a blinding pace, some taking their time in indecision. Cars full of modern day pilgrims, traveling through a waypoint, their travels sometimes shared with the attendent behind the counter. The items on the shelves, some collecting dust in neglect. Merchandising signs are plastered along the white walls of the small building. A cooler holding hundreds of drinks for availibilty. Title floors, speckled with minute traces of commerce. An overwhelming scent of gasoline, accompanied by the odors of automobiles. The uneven parkig lot lays vacant most days, in longing expectation.
