These streets are home in a way that I've never known before.
I think that every time I come to a new city, though, except maybe in the middle of the country, but I've made a point to avoid the places that don't make me want to take root. There's something about this place that's different apart from the obvious way.
Came to Bordertown because it's the thing to do. Whatever I am to people in the world, I'm big in B-Town. Elves especially dig my work. Bigger than Jesus means nothing to them, of course.
From where he stood cleaning out the café coffee grinder, a boy with curly auburn hair stared dully at the rapper, who was sitting in a corner with a skinny latte. He was used to hearing them think – the reason he'd come to B-town in the first place – but this dickhead narrated his life.
Bigger than cigarettes. I like the sound of that. I've got a show tomorrow at a place called the Dancing Ferret. Stupid-ass name, but I love the idea of people here dancing to my beats. I've been to Tokyo and Paris and places I don't even know the names of, but I've never been somewhere that felt so foreign and so familiar as this place. Bordertown. And it's all mine while I'm here.
What was a guy like this from the World even doing in a café at eight in the morning? The boy at the counter finished cleaning the coffee grinder and set about making chamomile tea to calm his nerves as well as a red-eye for that guy who always rolled in a quarter past eight before work. Then he turned his attention back to the guy sitting in the corner. He was writing something down on a napkin. No, not just something. Poetry.
Guy working here can't make coffee for shit, and he's a total dick. Probably some rich kid from the east coast who thought he'd make it if he came here and now he's doing the exact same thing as before. Don't have to worry about that, since I'm always moving, always changing, always ahead of the time and on the beat, homeless but always at home. I should write a song about Bordertown for tomorrow. That'll drive 'em crazy.
"Motherfucker," the barista snapped. He'd dropped the pot of water he'd boiled for the tea, swearing violently enough to drive the rapper from his seat briefly and then out of the café entirely when he continued to angrily berate the pot for falling. Once the door closed, jingling the bell tied neatly to the upper corner, he looked up with a serene expression and calmly finished cleaning up the mess he'd made on the floor.
