I find myself having the same conversations over and over. The settings, the particular pair of eyes that meet mine, it's all different. The basis, basic emotions and cues, remain.

Sometimes it drives me crazy, how I just can't seem to evolve. In some respects, I have, so drastically, but. You know how I hate doing anything halfway.

However, it just may happen to be all the people around me.

Enough about that, though. I want to write about breakfast.

Have you ever felt that you embodied every stereotype that could possibly be thrown your way? Manual transmission spit gravel outside the Dover Diner as the spring sun fought the smog. Never have I felt so white, such the essence of (new) Jersey. Our waitress, she didn't tell us her name. She didn't bother to hide the hickies on her neck- three on one side, two on the other.

I've lost interest in this already. How pathetic.

See how poetry rots your brain? See how it erodes all sense of structured flow? Blank verse is a parasite, a tapeworm. No wonder that, however much I keep glutting myself on nonsense, I'm so hungry for prose.