The man in the chair is MARWOOD. Twenty-five years old. Milk white with insomnia. Glasses like Lennon’s and a sweet face behind them. Seventy-five per cent good looks and the rest is anxiety. This is a long haul with unspecified destination. Only thing certain is there are still hours to go. Hours and hours have stagnated in here. Drifting in cigarette smoke and settling with the dust.