Americano

The crunch of asphalt under the wheels and the steam from the hot Americano, everything in this rhythm smells of speed and self-confidence. The day is like a token machine: you put one in, you get one out; you don't put one in, you get nothing. They don't believe in fate here, only in the meter on the dashboard and the jingle of coins in the glove compartment. Brutality flows thick, almost sticking to your fingers. Between the swearing and the bravado, something like honesty slips thru – a strange admission of fear of poverty, not of the world. The whole point is to keep her from crawling closer again. Each verse is like the roar of an engine before the start. Everything is on the edge: love is bought, pride is displayed, life feels like a short-term deal with oneself. And only coffee in the mornings reminds me that yesterday really happened, while tomorrow is still uncertain.