Kvltr

I sit sipping the pumpkin spice IPA with Foo Fighters cooing through the crowd noise. The restaurant is a German beer house in Pittsburgh, with a mixture of faces, selling a weekend Penguins post-game special menu. I just biked along a historic river seminal to American history, and failed to find a seat at a taco and beer place right before straddling into this place. I sit with another foreigner to this land who doesn’t share my mother tongue. This place and all are the culture of capital, ground up and mixed into this meaty mush. It is confident in seeing itself as a new recipe on a plate of the new historic age, but I see it standing on the layers of leftovers underneath – crusts of our past obsessions. For flies or for folk, it feeds someone afterall.