This place is a place between dreams, a place where lost boys and dreamers are caught confused. Little boys that have never ever grown up, gazing through gardens of sheet metal and poster paint fancied up to sell. Does the child become a man, or the man a child? Here it doesn't matter, because the child and the man are the same.

Gaze into the mirror but refuse to see. We're all blind here.

Trapped in time.

Here the school boy is revered, a rookie and a saint. An angel with ink stains on his skin.

Here the pedophile is the well known, staring down blouses and reading between the lines, instead of the lips that question, that implore, that whisper, that wonder.

Here the child that never grew up speaks as though he understands the world, holds the keys in his hands, has the potential to be something, make something wonderful of himself. He presses his knowledge on us. When he is put in his place he recoils.

Listen to the smooth pop breaking over the tattle tails in waves. He said she said drowning in the oldies geniouses singing sad songs.

Do you hear the bells for the idiots, going off in car alarms and tv whistlings?

Do you here the silence behind the chatter. There is nothing that anyone wants to share. We are quiet in our own inner ramblings.

We are people who want to make it somewhere. We are chained down by our hopes, we are lost without our ambition. We like to convince ourselves that leather interior and flashing lights is only going to tie us in for a while, but we'll emerge like moths in only a few months.We are lying to ourselves and know it.

This place is a place in between where dreams stay dreams, never die, never come true. This place is stopped in time.

Only a few of us will break free.

This is my homage to the dealership.

It is beautiful in its changelessness.

Lauren Hatch

January 26, 2008