Page Comma The
(Nothing here, really)

Traveling in Where

First impression is a landslide mystery. A half-sober cobblestone, fire icing through fatigue-massacred pupils, dances the two-step sketching of a liquid-demented Pandora's paradise. Cryptic semblance to a fourth-grade textbook reverie rings true, and from a booth I answer, amongst mob-mounted mutterings and Teddybear-style cheap fascination. Here we have The, followed by The, while crime-honored robins float the goods like cedar-starved termites, pouncing on massless minds and Nutella-covered pictograms, a dishonest man's feast on an overpriced, emblematic platter.

Linguistic phenomenon scuttles from lips to ears, a disgruntled John-a-Dreams on a balmy midnight afternoon, misunderstood and precisely abject because, a Stranger in a barn full of easily-deceived rancidness, he scoffs, curiously nonchalant but respectfully refined, at obligatory conversation with those of a different nature.

Drifting, a mere two steps behind the coffee-bitten wolfpack raised by sheep, but admittedly intrigued, are my reptile-lidded eyes.