We’d been talking into the cups. All lot of plastic cups of draft beer that had warmed over. So he came to work as the extra chef. It was a good deal. But nothing like that lasts. The other owner’s brains ended up splattered on the street because of a bad deal with a bad guy. So we never experienced the full steam of prideful grub to define our internal musical clockworks. Nothing was left to wonder. Nothing eventually became nothing. No remainders, no immaturity. Only emptiness skirting torn pockets and reduced to lint balls. The dark strands of gothic misunderstandings were left to other people. The waves of humidity on course for channel markers I’d long avoided. Now, he’s got the best t- shirts, the best red beans, and some of the best songs on the wing.