This was a store of my youth, tucked away and unchanging. Memories and energy dowsed up with the connections of formative friendships. Houses called home by friends reminded me of change that under lied and unsettled. Coming here was ritual even deeper than that of the road. The raw vitae gurgled in between the hostess snack cakes and five cent gum that still unsold since adolescence. With wise eyes one could see the ambrosia crusted around a corner that held the game cabinets long ago.
The eyes of teens haunting the storefront were mundane, though one looked to be looking. Those inside were the magi of the road, that much was plain. Somehow we knew our own. Nods told each there was no conflict to occur. The Seven Eleven was most oft safe, almost holy ground. Other watering holes could be contentious but this was a night camp one found for safety. I would pay my ration with coins of fallen realms.
The eyes of teens haunting the storefront were mundane, though one looked to be looking. Those inside were the magi of the road, that much was plain. Somehow we knew our own. Nods told each there was no conflict to occur. The Seven Eleven was most oft safe, almost holy ground. Other watering holes could be contentious but this was a night camp one found for safety. I would pay my ration with coins of fallen realms.
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