take me down to the Salt Lake City where there’s salt and lakes and the lakes are salty
Ok yes but you musn’t emit a high-pitched screeching noise of impotent despair. As much as you’d like to. As much as it feels right, on some animal level. You’re in a coffee shop which is five minutes from closing. At this stage in the game they might not even chuck you out; they might just lock you in and turn off the lights, hoping to exorcise your shit through the power of darkness, claustrophobia and commercial floor cleaner vapours. Your girlfriend will have to be called in tomorrow, duck under the police tape and identify you from a black scorch mark and a pile of shredded business attire. “He always liked coming here,” she stutters between sobs, “or, I dunno, any of the other identical central London branches of this particular chain of coffee shops.”
No how about you just close the laptop, finish your chemical backwash Americano and get tae fuck, you sorry little situation. Yeah, that’s it. Take your nerves and go home. No, we won’t charge you for the electricity. Just leave. Thank you.