I had a print shop in California, at the foot of the 78 Freeway. Freeways run
across these lands, hundreds miles to the north, east, and west and the shop
lay near the intersection of two of them. In the day-time you heard that rumbling,
of trucks and cars, but the very early mornings and late evenings were quiet,
and sometimes the nights were cold.
The chief feature of the print shop, and of your life in it, was the paper.