I got off the bus around 7:50 this morning, and everything smelled like right after a bunch of fireworks have gone off. the city is falling apart somehow, even though all around me it’s being built up.

in a weird-shaped space that looks like a hacked-off part of a lobby or something, I’ve found a strange little solace that I keep meaning to jot down: the walls are cement, the creamer sits in a glass container in a bucket of ice, and over my americano, the people working there ask about my weekend. we swap quips and make jokes about terrible seattle bands.

the one who’s usually the barista just learned how to sew, and sometimes has perfect eyeliner on, and other days looks like she’s just gotten out of bed. behind her station, catering lines bustle. music that’s generally a bit too abrasive for early mornings in the business district blares through the speakers. and there’s a strange warmth that emanates that I can’t completely explain.

in the midst of bizarre, behemoth vibes; in the place I’ll probably get priced out of and have to move away from someday – these moments at the counter feel like home.

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