hansel

There's a little restaurant about two miles down the road from my house. Open all night, sometimes later. Shes sometimes broken into separate shifts, a constant oscillation of availability and indecision. Id quit going if I wasnt so use to the company; Ive always had a certain addiction to familiarity. The faded mosaics a constant reminder of what love felt like; before cynicism, before scotch, before walking down a crowded alley way with your half sun tattoo crowding out the ground beneath my feet.

Sometimes, when Im sleeping, the din of the crowd blanks out all thought. Every pitched voice, tiny tone, or little obelisk of sound, crouching together in a fever pitch. I tried to melt into your noise once; to experience the white heat of summer and blend into every sand castle, built on imperfect holidays, waving your flag in desperate relief. The marauders never came.

My restaurant is pitched in between two store fronts, each with opposing faces. They create a delicate imposition of approach from either direction. Like an internment camp for Christian wives, divorced of their baiting husbands and doomed. Now, on the weekends, I can come in from the top, which is also a delicate matter. Theres always a dog on duty. His breath is like cheap bourbon, beating me down, branding me with failed words and hisses. Clearly, a different approach might be warranted.

Vote:

Do you want me to stop using loose, shitty metaphors and out and out lies to describe my life? Or do you want more boring I statements and faux-philosophical, hipster baiting bullshit?