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Lost Springs, Wyoming. The smallest town in America.

I don’t know if that’s actually true. I passed a little rundown sign outside of Cheyenne advertising it—or, I guess not advertising it. Proudly proclaiming it. There’s nothing really to advertise.

According to the sign at the town’s edge, the population of Lost Springs is five. As far as I’ve been able to tell, the population is now down to zero. I—

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I’m not sure why I wanted to come here. I thought—well, this is going to sound fucking stupid, but seeing that sign and thinking of a tiny town with a tiny population made me think of my miniatures. Like Lost Springs would be a tiny dollhouse set. I mean, with a name like Lost Springs, you know…

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It’s not like that really. It’s one road, obviously—there’s a post office and store and a bar. And to be clear, the post office and store are one building, the bar’s on the other side of the street. There’s a few other buildings but I can’t tell what they are.

I did go into the bar and, I guess it should come as no surprise, but their liquor selection was not particularly impressive. But I’m wandering around the main street and it’s…

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I don’t know. The weather is turning. Makes sense, I guess, now that we’re in the final days of October. It isn’t raining or anything but…

Well, maybe I’m a little suspicious of gray-green skies now.

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I thought it’d make me feel better, coming here. That there would be something idyllic in it—surely those that chose to live in a town with only a few other people did it for a reason. They removed themselves from society, entrusted themselves to a few other hands for something.

It isn’t that it’s a bad place. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s…a town. It’s a town that’s small, yes, but otherwise looks just like half the towns I’ve driven through in this state or any state. It isn’t special or…somehow magical. There probably isn’t any reason why the people who lived here lived here other than it’s where they ended up.

And it just…

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