I leave Illinois to enter into the Midwest. I perceive through the bus window some lost, verdant prairies. Iowa is itself one big prairie. As always, the bus stops at a gas station, always the same gas station, since the upshot is that they all look alike.
In the time it takes to inhale a burger and fries in a fast food joint, and to have a smoke, and to stretch one's legs, it's time to leave again. I watch the ballet of American trucks going back and forth on the freeway that cross over a straight-away stretched upon the flatness of the plains of Iowa.
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