Hello, Nice to Destroy You
December 23, 1964
Pamban Island, India
It was eleven p.m. on the last train to Dhanushkodi. For the past twenty hours, I had done everything but sleep during the long ride, despite spending most of what was left of my money on a compartment of my own. My mind refused the luxury so long as I kept sweating.
The tiny, wall-mounted fan had stopped working five minutes after I switched it on. A porter told me they were unable to fix it and all other cabins were occupied. The crowded third- and second-class cars would be even worse, so I accepted the sticky discomfort. While I appreciated the solitude, one could only play so much solitaire and I sincerely couldn't stomach a fourth reading of On the Road. Dean Moriarty was starting to piss me off. If he was here, I
