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It's so late at night that it's almost morning; the wind blows cold as my icy boots crunch on the sleet-covered pavement.
The warm glow of the Diner beckons.
So we sit, stirring our hot coffee, scanning yesterday's stained newspapers in silence, while fragments of time vanish; we wonder why we are here now; as each one comes and goes, each of us must wonder, 'are they here for the same reason as me'?
I remember Edward Hopper's Nighthawks in Chicago, while Tom Waits' raspy lyrics flow from a dented Seeburg whose cracked glass front is held together with tape. Oddly, it is a track from Rain Dogs. I half-expect Julius Knipl himself might wander through the red doors, protecting his Leica from the damp with a plastic bread bag.
Now I'm here myself, waiting.