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 ^{(it's beta!)}

The air, in the only word you can describe it, is chalky It's dark and thick and you can swear that you can see where the sun's light is strangled. You walk, more likely you swim and push through the smoke and guttural noise of this patch of midnight in the day, to an empty table. Coughing, you sit gingerly on the bench. The booth you find is gnarled wood, less of a seat and more of a forest restrained. You sit, uncomfortable and squinting slightly at the waitress who poured you what seemed like coffee the duration of an hour ago, doing your best to look inquisitive. The room is endless it seems, made up of wood and concrete and a certain sense of stubborn refusal to modernize or clean or smile politely while giving change. The wall closest to you is heavily worn, carved in with phrases and memories and names like "A + J forever" or " '83 4 Life" or "that isn't coffee you're drinking" Finally, giving up on that one flake of a friend who gave bad directions, you leave, replacing the coaster under your cup with a bill most likely four or eight too many. The air outside feels clean, and you notice that your day has turned to dusk. The door closes rudely behind you, defiant and a little mean-spirited. Maybe you'll come back tomorrow night.