i'm trying to write something very moving; blood, war, instead it's the waitress' crooked teeth, a twenty-four hour joint, everyone's smoking and she's smoked fifteen since i got here, two hours ago, and i can't take my eyes off her teeth. they look like the passengers on a late bus, crammed together and belligerent. i'd be more abstract, but concrete's all the rage / when do they actually clean, here, not just wipe the crumbs around with a quick towel? why is there a blonde hair in my fries when there's not a single blonde cook, waitress, or customer?