What is the use of going anywhere you've been before but nostalgia. Nostalgia isn't much of a word anymore but the loop that still bends your knee. This place is cold. It's always been cold ever since you've been coming. What kinda of place is this cold? Coffee is hot and people are walking clanging radiators and still, you've got numb fingers and old ladies stay scarved up and coated. The boys like you because you make empty eyes at them across the place and inadvertently approximate consumptive phallic gestures on the gnawed end of BiC Crystal BLACKs. Really you're a paranoid freak chewing the earth for oil to well up in your mouth slick, pooling, and gross carrying a taste that never quite leaves. Your left teeth ache more, as a rule, so break your right jaw on the first two bites of a quarter gumball and maybe you'll make it through with minimal wincing. The greenest green apple you've never conceivably tasted, nor are you sure anyone’s ever tasted, from a truly in fact apple puts up a quite formidable fight against the oil spill in your mouth.

Stick around pale fingers. Fuck around and don't talk to anyone. A poster told you there'd be a show. The scene used to be way different mannn. Something now tasting of a deep lilac purple rubber pencil grip adheres to your molars and you oscillate between chewing it and prying it off with the fat part of your tongue a bit. Your chipped tooth scratches the tip of your tongue and so you stop that right then in there. Damned gum. People come in and such and some of them reek of smoke and some of them smell somehow of nothing and you stuff away the urge to prod at the coated shapes with your long broomstick hands proving the flesh you so earnestly doubt. There are the prettiest girls in the whole world and the baldingest men in the whole world and the oldest dancing bums in the whole world and the coolest 5'4 teenage capital everything ANARChiSTS in the whole world and the tallest shyest t-girls whose bobs come to a point that just misses their pale chins and whose limbs adhere to their bodies standing like an exclamation point in the whole world.

There are guys and they are so in a way exactingly simple with a complete 'on the face of it-ness' that is so coyly subversive but only works in as much as their puppy dog demeanor never acknowledges that they would even know what those words mean. They listen really well with nice smiles slightly agape revealing some pearly whites that hang low beneath dark pools and bushy brows. There's someone in a gimp mask. It has dog ears and a snout. The zipper reaches around the snout. it is in fact a pretty long zipper and I think that guy just came here from work. He's got a red collared shirt that's kind of thick and uniform-heavy. You can see the shadow of his tits cast down his torso a bit and he slouches to mitigate this. You can almost hear him wishing he'd had the chance to run home and change. This is not the gimp to be clear. The gimps getting petted some by a very tall girl that looks like she belongs more to crystalline ceiling decor than the ground where we walking salt people are. Does the gimp derive pleasure from the scritching of their prosthetic doggy ears? I don't ask the gimp this. I think by definition gimps are bad conversationalists.

The boy you made accidental eyes at while scarfing down BiC pens has come over and asked you something but you didn't quite catch it you're laughing a touch and making passover eye contact between the floor and the ceiling in great big nodding gestures almost bow like at his big brown pools and you know now it was definitely a question because he's standing there all blank and expectantly maximally agape with a stare so intently on your face you sware it was calculatingly practiced, a measure of endurance almost, a test, and then you kill yourself right then in there on the spot you, in a magnificent act of concentration, make yourself combust and vanish in a surprisingly modest plume of dust and smoke as your jingling earrings fall cartoonishly to the scorched bit of floor where you once stood. Or you try your darndest. There are vaginas all over the walls, you notice now, forming a dense weave of ostensibly floral wallpaper but no you see now those are definitely cunts. You said that last part aloud and now he looks puzzled. This is a lot of staring and your eyes feel like hot irons scorching the sockets of your skull. You've got that shit all over your face you hear a voice say tucked right in the back of your head where your spine meets the brain and you now feel dumb and silly. You wanna cry. You always want to cry when you're looked at for this long. The lights get all stretchy and wobble in the wetness that forms along the bottom lid of your eye. It eats the boy and you can't see pools for stars but you smile really hard through pursed white ink stained lips that split along their gray dead crags.

And just then, an electric shriek cuts the moment in two as the crowd compresses upon a stage of fried blonde hair and twisting flannel. The gimps snout hits boy in the back of the head and he's now turning around in the crowd's great swimming vortex. You feel a hundred elbows pass through your back and out your chest. You jut your head just out into the shifting loom of shoulders as you feel every light run down your hot cheeks. you dissolve in a thrum of clipping waves and lose elbow for ass in the small of chandelier lady's shadow and move to her like a buoy in storming sea. You look up into the shattered star of her pale cheek through which every light explodes into a million shards of white, all of which are your own frail broomsticks that pry her arm from her side and unto which you entwine in clinging desperate embrace.