(no subject)

[proximoception]

A sort of place there used to be.

Half dark like a lid half down on a gaze into night from a lit room.

Each cigarette a promise that you'll either change or die.

Coffee until six, beer after. Like a law.

Half raw red meat too fatty to finish pushed just away with the plate.

Such that the knife always clattered, no knowing how hard to cut.

No knowing when the clatter would come. When you'd break through.

From the other tables you could almost feel the cuts through the holes in the clatter.

Four times out of five not a good piece to be had anyhow.

Might as well have stopped with the bread.

Looking at the drink menu ten minutes at a time.

As though you'd ever order brandy.

No one there has ever ordered brandy.

The first time you noticed the music you wondered if it had always been playing.

Or if they'd played it just to make you wonder that.

Or if it had happened before.

And you'd thought the same thing.

Every second of your life.

Comments

[proximoception.livejournal.com]

I have never particularly liked steak, esp. rare, or liked coffee or beer, or been a smoker, or enjoyed this kind of place. Just suddenly remembered what they felt like and what the people who frequented them felt like they'd be like inside.