Sometimes I go to a restaurant and eat bad Chinese food. I seek it out. The cranky waiter. The lonely fat men drinking cheap beer out of a bottle. The silence, but for those lonely men drawing in their breath or the hobbled waiter dropping steaming plates on wobbly tables. I go to this place to replenish my creative emptiness. A red neon cursive is my beacon. The feel of salt stays on my lips. For when I am hungry for the cranky and the alone, I eat bad Chinese food and watch stories with foreign eyes.