8 am. existential

coffe cup, sigarette, a girl bums one, puts her apron on the news dispenser and begins with the existential talk. it's 8 a.m. too early, too strange this bright nurkiness for weather, makes a man squint in twilight daytime should be sun-shining-hours. so i glower.

a man tells her it's sad to see a beautiful woman smoke but he's wearing his shirt inside out and obviously has a mental baldness to go witht the disapearing gray sprite-hair from his head.

he's a madman, 60 or so, business type in plain clothes, maybe he has a thing for 20-somethings girls.

she's sweet, but i tell her to hold off on the sarte for a couple hours, and i go back inside. wilco is playing over the intercom system. jesus, etc.

damn the music makers who tell us about the stars. i get a refill, fold hamsun back into my pocket and walk off into the carpark to find my sweetheart who always gets me where i need to go.

2003-06-11 | 9:18 a.m.
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