Salt and pepper hair in runny eggs and heartburn bacon. Warm coffee, curdled cream, alka seltzer bubbles bursting like dreams in mid-air. What diner is this? I say to the Syphilitic cook. What diner is this? I say to the Knock-kneed waitress. Over There... the baleful women with lupine eyes praying for (preying upon) men in shark skin suits and dyed pompadours. Why am I here? Catching up on life? Fleeing from a stuffy-aired cubicle of bleached hopes and dead souled co-workers in government issue unhappiness? Another breakfast, Madam, I request of the waitress. And make the eggs runny. Just like last time.