Diner stories. 

I’m sitting at the far end of a diner. On a barstool at the counter. The coffee is mediocre. My apple pie is taking too long. Traveling east is on my mind. To the desert. Or north. To the redwoods. Escape. Escape. Is all I can conjure. Get the fuck out of this town. Get away from these people. Yeah. And it’s that easy. It’s the action that stresses me out. My apple pie showed itself. I let it sit for a good five minutes and it still burnt my mouth. There’s a blonde sitting at the opposite end of the diner, staring at me. Her husband doesn’t seem to notice. Not my type. Doesn’t look like she reads. However, I’m overly judgemental. I want to go east. Capture human aesthetic in the Mecca of fashion. Where they don’t know they’re fashionable. I want to learn their ways and create with them. Or go north and learn the true definition of being self-sustainable. Find the power of isolation and utilize it. But I’m sitting in a diner. Letting some blonde think I give a fuck. 


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