These factories. These machines of culture polute the air with notions of class. In the fog people loose themselves, traveling down a path to vanity. With tolls every morning; the wayfarers believe this the road to paradise.
Against the tide of the 7-11 masses, poverty has many faces. Some poor in spirit are big tippers. The line, the cashout, the line, is the rhythm of the nobility. Ancient ways of home preparation is a lost art and even frowned upon as black magic.
Witches and sorcerores who make their own brew, oft wish for exile. Waking up before birds, the boiling cauldrons, the spells can be tiresome. But their coin does not permit otherwise and they accept this.
Look, something wicked this way comes... Oh, another Starbucks.
Photo: coffee cup taken with iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (John S, Pistil, Cherry Shine)
