Our Father of the Holy Cappuccino
I come from the land where coffe shops, cafés, espresso bars are where bohemians, socialists, commies, and artsy types tend to congregate. Where poetry readings from hairy-pitted, dread-locked sporting, patchouli smelling women exert much energy to bring synergy between the writings of Bukowski and Carlos Castenada.
And now I’m in Georgia.
fucking Georgia:
