The walls were off-white with hints of gray combed into the strokes. I only noticed this when I stared hard at the walls. They were softly thumping, the walls I mean, along with the pale, innocent tangle of shelves and the off-white, brick like counter. There was graffiti in the corners of the ceiling. The passion crafted language was mellowed under the beat. The colors played faded. I spent too much time in this place. There was a handsome man behind the off-white counter. I visited too much, I can’t do this anymore. The walls reflected a glare that was beginning to hurt my eyes. And the music, Oh that finger-curling beat set the room in full throb, the walls now a strobe. My head began to swim. Or was that my eyes? I needed to take my leave. I grabbed my orange juice in one hand and my rather large bag filled with industry in the other hand. I walked up to the horizon and whispered my inner peace. A rush like a liquid storm washed behind my ears, clearing my vision for a vision’s sake. The storm stopped falling and so did my heart. But my fingers never stopped penning life. The thrill of the cotton threshold was most relieving. The glow of a red exit churned the sea green waves rolling in my brain. Industry pricked the vibrations of farewell, and his cherry words, like Catholic acid, dissipated to small screams streched by the old, wooden door.

 Illusion led me through the door. I was never on the other side. From the great, slam window I was always on the outside looking in.