Holy crap, you and I frequent the same places, the jar with with gizzards and hearts, abandoned, longing to be purchased, fly paper with nary a spot to succumb, Maraschino Cherries, last ordered and served to a heavily made up women, yearning to be younger and whose name I have since forgotten, ice meant for the urinals, brown even before it hits the porcelain, the bottle of scotch, with a seal broken 10 odd years ago by the last decent customer in the place, a 12 pack of Grain Belt, still positioned in the cooler in a place of honor for the last patron that understood the splendor of the product, R.I.P., mousetraps, robbed of their bait and rusty from age, Polaroid pictures of customers from a bygone era, old, faded, seemingly out of place, Slim Jim's, crusty and dry but oddly good tasting.
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