...from the Wilco book...

[motile_slump]

Past the orange roof and turquoise tower, past the immense sunburst of green and yellow sign, past the golden arches, beyond the low buff building, beside the discreet hut, the dark top hat on the studio windowshade, beneath the red and white longitudes of the enormous bucket, coming up to the thick shaft of the yellow arrow piercing the royal-blue field, he feels at home. Is it Nashville? Elmira, New York? St. Louis county? A Florida key? The Illinois arrowhead? Indiana like a holster, Ohio like a badge? Is he north? St. Paul, Minn.? Northeast? Boston, Mass.? The other side of America? Salt Lake? Los Angeles? At the bottom of the country? The Texas udder? Where? In Colorado's frame? Wyoming like a postage stamp? Michigan like a mitten? The chipped, eroding bays of the Northwest? Seattle? Bellingham, Washington?

Somewhere in the packed masonry of states.

- Stanley Elkin, The Franchiser