11th Street

A quick glance at the wall clock doesn’t help either, as the bar is always stuck at four-twenty and the only indicator of time is the conversation volume, the amount of people per square inch, and how much food is being served. The windows are all tinted and covered with various inscriptions and etchings—remnants of previous ownerships and relics of a chocolate city— with the only light being a couple of orange lamps, one thrown in a corner above the only sizeable booth and the other giving the bartenders just enough light to see ho much they’re pouring. It’s an amber darkness, the kind that welcomes everyone with open arms and whispers sweet goodbyes before sending you out into the cold. 

Read More