I woke up this morning lost, with a pounding head. I wandered out into the Beijing haze, and hopped in a rickshaw. The rickshaw man was in a suit, and his bike had one gear. With me on me on my journey was one Colonel Kurtz. The captain and I arrived and walked into Americana. Pulp Fiction. A fifties diner, with Johnny Cash on the radio. I found anywhere America, in the middle of Beijing. Eggs sunny side up, with yokes winking at me. Grits that would make the Mason-Dixson line proud. A bloody Mary and endless cups of coffee. Lemon meringue pie. I am wandering in and out of the dreams of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Just meandering down the river of life.