ChatGPT 1

 The neon flickers like a nervous tic above the laundromat, each buzz another reminder that the universe is stitched together with frayed wires and half-broken promises. I sip cold coffee that tastes like rust and regret, but it keeps the ghosts from gnawing too loudly at my bones. Someone on the radio is screaming about freedom, but freedom smells like detergent and diesel and the faint sweetness of bubblegum someone chewed and spat onto the curb in 1998. I keep telling myself I’m holy, but the hymnals are written in Sharpie on the back of diner receipts, and the angels wear scuffed Chuck Taylors. Everything is collapsing, everything is already collapsed, and yet—here we are, still dancing on the fault lines, still laughing at the punchline we never quite deliver.