Meatspin

While standing in line at a grimy Philly 7 Eleven, a greasy, girthy hot dog on the roller catches my wandering eyes and I become a deer frozen in headlights, watching the thin, white, glistening beam of reflected light smoothly tremble across the ever-turning wiener’s textured surface, as on a pool of lazily undulating fluid, in which a reflection slow-dances in place, or like an audio visualizer subtly reacting to near-silence, I become lost in its perpetual spin.

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