Always thought the laundromat would be good for writing. In a dark poetry, seedy underbelly, Tom Waits kind of way.
But, there is scant sad beauty to be had in that one sock left behind at the bottom of the machine.
The dryers aren’t hot enough to burn away your sins. Not at six minutes for a quarter anyway.
It’s been weeks and I have yet to hear any secret, sobering wisdom from the mouths of crazed junkies, if I’m lucky enough to find one.
Shame how life won’t imitate art.
Guess I should be used to disappointment by now.
Corned Beef Hashtag 
I usually enjoy my laundromat time – not only do I get take-out food (gotta kill some time, yea?) but I take the Kindle along and shove my nose in it. Kind of an ‘out in the wild, yet still undetected’ vibe…
The one time I decided to take a chainmaille project to work on, I found I couldn’t get anything done, as it attracted all sorts of attention.
The laundromat is one of the few places I can scribble in my journal and remain largely uninterrupted, except for the aforementioned occasional crazed junkies or other gibbering wanderer. Still would be nice if it were just a tad more depressingly inspirational.