I wonder, are there worse fates than sitting in a laundromat with a hangover? The deafening cacophony of machine monotony; churning, whirring, whinnying, shaking, spinning. The glass-bellied washers wobble and bounce and jump in anchored fits and I can't help but look through those naval cyclone portholes.
Tiny tsunamis
Feeding on dirt and grime and
Fistfuls of quarters
The floors here are filthy, like they've been mopped with a bag of old mechanic's greasy rags. The smell is noxious; the heavy scent of detergents and bleach fumigate my aching mind. The walls rumble as the machines go berserk, like trapped animals banging against cage doors.
I can feel the plates of my skull shifting, making mountains.
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