A place poorly named for all its goings on—a restaurant—proves rest-less. Conversation over clamor over music over sales pitch, nothing restful resides here; it is a place of arm wrestling executives and entropic coffee carafes—survivalism all around. If dishes flew like frisbees from the kitchen with their breakfast, we’d accept it in short order: break fast, short order—the language, the nature of this place is speed, controlled chaos, rapidity, turnover: “would you like a to go box?” translates to “get the fuck out.” That “Sexual Healing” comes on in double-time measure only makes it all ironically less human. Who wants sexual healing at 200 pumps per minute? Humanity can’t think in these places, let alone heal, or rest—instead we play act at the nodes in a market we’ve become: commodities to each other, salesman and buyer, bagel pusher and mouth stuffer, drink slinger and drunkard. Well, I must leave it here; I’ve been asked if I “need a to-go box.”