The smell coming off the paddle in the morning, dry wood, burning slowly. The moist heat of hand-sweat and Sicilian weight. Edwin shares a piece of excess crust from the white pie, a thin and hot strip of pizza, garlicky and oily and there's even a bit of ricotta and my god does it not feel like a breakfast food. I fill the machine with money. Two kids come in and I tell them to go eat breakfast and then come back. KTU has been playing non-stop Doors and I'm loving every minute of it.
We talk and blah blah. We drink at the end of the night...let it soak in like we have it the worst, but there's always worse, although I'm in no real position to say so.
The other night I was on chat roulette wearing nothing but a bathrobe.
"You look how I feel"
