the little details that are almost too much to look at:

the used appliance store where the old man with a mismatched suit is trying to sell old washers with tired determinance. he motions you over. you are unshaven, swollen faced, zipper half down, you know you won't be making a sale so it's a half-hearted pathetic shuffle. we ask for a business card but you don't have any, gesturing towards the back room piled high with papers and old phonebooks, where i can imagine the two of you eating miniature tins of dinty moore stew, watching reruns of night court on a black and white television, the kind with a dial to change the channels. it is too painful to be in here, i am edging towards the door, muttering excuses, measurements needed, anything to get away from the stagnation and the sadness.

then while waiting at the drive through, see a small carnival with 4 tired ponies chained to a metal frame that rotates. they don't even raise their heads and there are men that look like trolls smoking and glaring and the sky is grey and there is a little boy without a shirt, his ribs sticking out and i want to turn away so badly but i keep looking.