Tom’s an old Scottish guy who sits with me in Guardino’s Espresso sometimes. I don’t think he’s all there. He tries to talk about Marxism to anyone who would listen but so far, I don’t think he’s been able to talk to anyone but me. Most people tend to avoid eye contact with him; people just think he’s loopy. To their credit, he has shaggy hair and teeth stained a piss-colored yellow from 3AM coffee and smoking-since-I-was-half-your-age.

“Oh come on, everyone’s got to believe in something.”

“Nope.” I finger an X over my chest. “It’s all empty inside.”


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