The water swirls down the sink and I stand above it and watch it retreat to the sewers and polluted oceans and rivers it came from. I wash my hair with the same revolting slime that Columbus once pissed into from a ship that brought over disease and hate. I have to wonder about the stories that inhibit the walls of this dirty gas station restroom and think that they are all stories or possibly forgotten memories. The snow leaks through the ceiling tiles and leaves an ugly stain that gives the room a bad reputation. I think that if this restroom was anywhere but a gas station, it wouldn't be because the smell is unbearable and I can no longer stand the color of the disgusting walls or the shape of the permanent floor tiles. As water continues to do its job of running, the sound is becoming redundant, and I think that you were never anything but beautiful to me.