enter a very dark, small room. there are wooden chairs with reflective finish scattered in vague correspondence to the tables in the room. at the rear of it is a door that leads to the kitchen, and a bar with formica top that serves drinks from cappucino to kamikaze.

hairy people, writers, and people in need of a wash, artists, and people in need of a drink hold council on the patterned surface tables near the bartop. behind it a slight man works, flipping glasses upside in the case hope that he'll perfect the transfer from standing to inverted and be able to have more style as a bartender, even one who serves mainly hypercaffeinated beverages.

there is a jukebox in the back corner of the room. ceiling fans swing listless over lights that glow faintly, enough to reveal the filament as if burning. a door leads out to the alley in back.