The windows in the back all have giant dicks drawn on them. I swipe them away with my hand and smoke a cig, hoping that Milo's still feeling sorry enough for me that he won't bitch. It's my bus anyway.I sigh and wonder where it is we're going now, what city's next. I stopped caring after Naomi went missing, but I can't help but feeling like I'm getting farther away from her, like maybe she's still in that blood drenched bus back in Denver. I tap my ashes into a glass tray and put the cig between my lips.If the woman in the hospital is Naomi's manager, America, and she's not the girl in the morgue, then who the fuck is that? That's the question that's been bothering me all night. I figure the police should have DNA or some shit, and I wonder what's taking so long. Or maybe if they know and they're just not telling me. It'd make sense. I mean, who the fuck am I really? A rock star? A drug addict? They don't fucking care. In all reality, she and I have nothing to do with each other. The police don't know I'm in love.
