2003-09-10 || 3:47 p.m.

|| with busted booths and empty bakery cases ||

last night the color of the sky was all wrong, gray and deep blue and greenyellow. an old bruise. pea soup. the color of natural disaster, like earthquakes and tornadoes and

frogs falling past tree tops and telephone wires. we drove on the freeway and shared a cigarette and watched the smoke get pushed back into our cracked windows by the weight of the weather going on above us. the radio reception was terrible. birds were screaming especially loud. we couldn't remember street names or direct routes or which bends in the freeway warranted brake lights and caution. the diner i wanted

to go to, in name of the almighty monte cristo sandwich, was closed and barren. we circled the parking lot and admired the sign and got back on the freeway, sure now from the state of the sky that the horsemen of the apocalypse would come tumbling down from the oakland hills to gallop alongside us.

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