Hustle and bustle of underground merry plaza showcase, the underbelly, the underlife, the true essence of the show going on at 8, men speaking rhythmically, eating quickly, with waste boxes, recyclables, the news is digestible, a man forages for answers in his phone, digging with his thumbs, and another reaches through the speaker to try to hear the close, the head anchored up, the scarf hanging at the direction towards the sun, oh the glamorous walls and the anxious souls, oh the marble staircase and the jansport backpack, more cleaning services than surfaces, less times more money, more money, less time, time is like money, it freezes and then it flows, what was the expression again? Only the smell of coffee is lucrative, only the stench of ***** diapers, babies, in a place like this, where murmers are murmurs and eat isn't required but fufilled then joked about over digestion, a proper coffee break, he is of an ash tray the men gossip, not directly, but imply, stick to facts but hierarchies fill in like water into a ravine, never obscene, silent struggles to an invisible top held by Rockefeller who is no longer in this world, his spirit keeps some sort of hope driving noses into the pizza lunches, and the limitless contemplaions, the tough desicions, men around coffee are women amidst vultures, who has a higher grasp, whose the one getting cursed, overdone, overpowered, the cards turning in silence, literally in glances, a polite face turns to a disappointed hatred in seconds, perfect, like a diamond
