Kristian MichailI am in America. Living out of a storage room at the top floor of a Walmart. The lights are fleuroscant. The corridors are cold. But something is warming about being a no-name in the nation of dreams. It’s not New York or Los Angeles. It’s quainter than that. Somewhere sketchy, but the location remains unclear. I have neighbours. A runaway teen couple from butt-fuck nowhere. They invite me over to their cupboard for a drink. I know no one else, so the discomfort of being alone outweighs the shame of hanging with these delinquents. He asks me for a tenner to buy some booze. I know I will not get the money back. I stay for a beer. I walk down the escalator passing the toy section. I see wrestling icon Stone Cold Steve Austin in a bright yellow worker vest. He is a customer service attendant. Arms still huge, standing tall, with a proud look on his face. I smile and nod hello. “Steve.” He nods back. I respect this man. He has conquered the world and yet he is still not too good for Walmart. I pass him a beer. He skulls it in style. End of dream.