Sorry Weвђ™re Open Today

And I haven't slept in twenty. I am a hollow vessel holding a spatula, Gary. GARY How do you know my name?

The glass double doors slid apart with a heavy, pneumatic sigh. A blast of cold, wet air rushed in, followed by a man wearing one shoe and a rain-soaked trench coat. He didn't look at Arthur. He walked straight to the back, his wet foot making a rhythmic slap... squeak... slap... squeak against the linoleum. Sorry We’re Open

Sorry, We’re Open. The sign is a sigh, a corporate apology,For forcing a soul to stand by the till,To trade away hours of human biologyFor pennies and quarters and dollar bills. And I haven't slept in twenty

Arthur looked at the security monitor. His own face stared back at him—grainy, gray, and hollowed out by the overhead fluorescent grids. He realized he couldn't remember what he had eaten for dinner, or if he had eaten at all. He reached under the counter and pressed the button to chime the store intercom. The glass double doors slid apart with a