The semi-seclusive piggybear steams and dreams in its truck cabin while instructive audios play through the radio. The cargo dances its tap dance back in the trailer. "Why and how is it that remembering usueful facts and describing what I see makes everyone around me unhappy?", the piggybear asks itself. There's a truckstop near. The wheels of the truck slow down. "There must be restrooms in there." While the tank is drinking its diesel, the piggybear waters its succulents, scratches its crotch and smiles. "Isn't it everything here made of low-poly shiny plastic and dash-dotted wireframe?", it thinks. Water pours over a lonely snail on the rim of the succulent's pot. The piggybear wants to solve the puzzle. It scratches its head and heads to the restrooms. After some minutes, it comes back, fastening the buttons of its trousers. The sun tries to hide behind the mountains, painting the horizon with oranges and purples... It's time to hit the road again.