Everytime he goes to the restaurant he would go to the dilapidated toilet with no toilet seat and take a piss standing up and stare at the LINDETEVES sign painted on the water tank.
Or, more like L NDE I EVI S.
The sign has been painted over so many times, presumably with the same salted duck-egg colour, it is less a sign than a palimpsest.
Then he would go back to his table, pick at his beef strog, the creamed potato mash on the rim of his compartmentalized metal plate (what jail am I in?), the always al dente cauliflower, the icky bottle of Lea & Perrins worcestershire sauce, and he would feel so tired.
He is so tired all the time.
This city looks so tired all the time.
This city is like an old dilapidated toilet missing its toilet seat.
This city is a palimpsest of the idea of a toilet.
With real flesh and blood people getting flushed down it clutching at their tired paper hearts.
Paper turns to mush in water.
Divagyrations 