Starbucks on the Third Street

A waiting room. A check-in counter into a world dignified, inclusive, relaxed. A wormhole.

Traversed, it opens onto the Third Street, dignified, inclusive, relaxed; foggy, fluid, forthcoming; carrying and caring for the world's Parisless Parisians, angelless Angelinos, sanctified by the ocean breeze Santa Monicans, wrapped into or flaunting ideals, eyeing the stars, from the gutter or laterally, by stroke of good fortune and taste, to the mingling of voices and guitar tunes, bouncing off the soaped pavement, the lit-up storefronts, spilling into the side-streets, lulling the alleys, taming the night.

Driven by a maxim and the promise of sun, a barista attends to the journey of the civilisation.