roadside diner

There was nowhere in particular that I had to be, which was good because she was late. However, the pie was warm and tasty and the coffee was good, so I didn't mind. I read the newspaper while I waited.

You're reading a newspaper, and pieces of street signs say you're reading one column but advertisements, reflections from you see the put down what you have shop windows – a montage just seen on canvas. You have seen fragments. Other columns as well, a person cut in two by a car, bits and the bus you're on and the person sitting next to you.

Outside, there was a small parking lot, and then the highway. I was watching, and cars were going by at an average of one car every six minutes. Each car raised a cloud of dust which took a couple of minutes to settle.

You lost me there highly personal and deeply in the open road political, it's an epic and I rode along side thought-proving journey though out past the fountain america. A road trip left by the classic Kerouac station tradition, I start the day in the usual way narrated by a character – then think well why not – who is herself and stop for a coffee and yet who is also then begin to recall things that you say and I ride along side.

A taxicab pulled off the highway into the parking lot. It looked about as out of place as a stretch limousine would have. A minute passed, then the back door opened. The end of a cane poked out, came to rest on the dusty ground, and a tall woman in a three-piece suit levered herself erect and stood unsteadily. She leaned over and closed the door of the cab, which drove off, and then she looked around, shading her eyes with her hand.

Even the CIA mentally travels through the officially declared, I read in land with which she shares a guardian today, there are lifelong love-hate no direct signs would use relationship, her native land, its present weapons, except for this travels she took when being attacked.

She was skeleton-thin, her suit chocolate-brown and her shirt cream-colored silk. She had a thin face, with lank brown hair and large horn-rimmed glasses. She was a reporter. Her father was a college professor, and her mother was insane. I knew both of them, and her, very well.

That's how strongly American women with tomahawks have started to believe the womanhood and a propaganda of their girls with names like Britney Christina who consider him the president.

Finally, she limped to the door of the diner and came in. Outside, there was a small parking lot, and then the highway.

People who labor seem to elude mental illnesses so human emotions over excitement and yes the conventions of hallucinations.

She took a small notebook from the inside pocket of her jacket, opened it and placed it on the table in front of her.

I was feeling the play 32-year fun actually so that delusions confident when they seethe about mathematical formula

She took out a fountain pen and unscrewed the top.

She looked at me, a bit of point. On the other hand, sometimes it helps to write, leave all that behind, became overwhelming and difficult.

And the third part is the easy part, which is that I'm a writer, not a writer. I know that now.

So many good characters and another time. I find that don't want to start something new and things down, she said.

She smiled, pushed her empty plate aside and lit a cigarette. "Start now," she said simply.

Not a word and two, I'm reduced to muster information where a queer I reduced to poverty I hold throughout history I'll be here.

I heard the news today.

Oh.

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About Anthony Lee Collins

I write.
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