I know now there is no one thing that is true - it is all true

In A Diner, Somewhere

It feels like half a dozen places you've been before, but none of it really familiar. The distant friendliness bouncing around trying to overcome the sterile politeness. Shiny, scrubbed stainless steel competes with shiny, scrubbed, worn-out Formica for that look of outlasted utility.

Every so often someone walks through the scratched-glass front door. This lets in the frantic rush of the cars, trucks, buses going somewhere on the all-too-near highway. This madness now momentarily takes your ears away from the melancholy lyrics being sung by the slinky singer in the piano bar just around the corner. Maybe you should have had Manhattans instead of those cups of coffee. It is, after all, the Happy Hour. You could have drunk away twice the sadness for the same price. As the bleached blonde, big-bosomed waitress fills your cup for the seventh (or is it the tenth?) time, you realize the time you came to kill is dead.

Now it's back into that rush to catch...