Citizens of the four corners of the world, take heed, and behold what horror descends upon us. An unholy paradox has revealed itself. Within its walls, utter chaos reigns: This coffee shop is also an art gallery.
Insanity. There can be no godly reason for such an abomination.
Lo, for here the oceans shall fall out of sight and paintings shall be with coffee and coffee shall be with pastries. The coming and going of a restroom key affixed to a wooden ladle marks the only indication that time passes as the mind sits frozen, unable to comprehend.
How can it be so? What vile architect of insanity can have devised this place?
A Lumineers album plays in its entirety while patrons settle in to a collective nonchalance that suggests either total defeat or a complicity in this wickedness. They offer nothing, seated at their wooden tables, typing on MacBooks and drinking coffees as paintings leer from behind them. Elsewhere, a father turns to son, offering him a coffee as they admire a painting of Nighthawks reimagined with Coen brothers characters.
Truly, this is bedlam.
Above the lattes, art looms. A lone merchant stands behind a concrete slab where two tip jars enjoin visitors to choose between Sex Pistols or The Descendents, but for what are we tipping?
Hot, caffeinated broth sloshes above a chalkboard that favors a soup of the day and Wi-Fi password. A small sticker that says “$350” marks an oil depiction of a sunset, but on another wall, a sunrise on canvas bears no marking at all. Could the latter be mere decoration? And if everything has a price in this mayhem, could it be that the paintings in the bathroom are also for sale?
All sense has fled this place. The mind knows when it has confronted something that simply cannot be.
To comprehend such a chaotic nightmare is futile. The boundary between Earth and the netherworld is not separated by gates after all, but a door. And on that door, a sign that says “Open daily from 6 a.m. to midnight,” bidding all enter and willingly fall to madness.