I caught the glance of an old man sitting on a bench in Chattanooga.
On his head was a greased back do.
On his face was a white stache.
In his left hand were four bags from "where shopping is a pleasure."
In his right was a credit card being fiddled with.

His eyes told me to run.

"From what?"
"From this."
"What is 'this'?"
"Everything surrounding us right now. This stuff isn't worth it. Run to the mountains."

I don't know what they meant by that, but that's what the eyes said.