081413 #worm #roach It's Esriel's Cafe's Post-Blow-up Pajama Party, and your friends are all sad, walking around in the rubble in their pajamas. Everything is just--broken. You walk around. Broken. One wall still stands, a natural attractor, turning into an amphitheatre of some sort. Closest to the makeshift stage squat Esriel's regulars, as if their beloved counter were still there. Behind them, in clusters: the legions of booth- and table-sitters; the families, the divorcees, the cousins, the gangs, the crushee and the crushed on, the lost soul, the rambling gentleman, the arbitrary and the vanishing, the familiar and the dog-faced. They perform a fractal chorus, wandering in and out of zoom, all night; some of them have flashlights. Behind them? The city streets, which never have stopped hissing since this whole affair began. The gray and shaggy streets and roads remember what it was like to be canals. None of this shit is new to them.