A bouquet of the day, but which day? At 2:37 a.m. the only sign of life amidst confectionary snacks, day-old donuts, wiper fluid, potato crisps and magazines. Newspapers are day old, headlines no longer bold or relevant. Nothing is fresh at half past two, especially not the coffee. Yet, here I stand beneath this brutal florescent light, colours scream, a psychotropic dream. A mind numbed by promise. There is only one purpose for gas station flowers, the only beauty available at this God damned hour. Until I show up at your door. Beauty is where you find it, but I want more.