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  • Lorenzo Bonari

A Night at Ginori's


Dear monotony, sweet sound of bright working-class lips, chanting words of second-hand common knowledge, so unambiguous, so tasteless, that just the thought of it dries my mouth of all the leftover vomit of a Wednesday night spent wanking my ego on the footnote of an academic page.


The motion of these lips, the American sweetened smell that pushes these broken sounds outside of their mouths and into this suburbia made of steel, piss, and sweet despair, it’s the highlight of my night.


I rest assured life won’t get much better.