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Piety to CorruptionA large warehouse on the outskirts of the city, innocent seeming enough, but holds what may be the darkest part of this city within its bowels. As you near the city, you see cars parked, and young people who are lost and alone in this world standing in line to enter it. They all wear an unspoken uniform of black clothes, and sport depressed faces. You near closer and you begin to hear the thump thump of industrial music which represents their disdain for the world blaring from the inside. You enter and see only sparse amounts of light coming from under bars and on the edges of the floor. One of the random narrow beams that emanate from the spotlights lands on an object and you begin to notice the tall spires that dot the inside, with cages on the very top that contain dancers that dance as if their very soul was gone out from them.
The floor is packed as they dance shoulder to shoulder. Suddenly, a spotlight appears that is brighter than all the rest illuminating a stage that also like
if you need help making it through the dayremember:
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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