Going to the laundromat is like stepping into a time machine. There’s a beautiful and clarifying isolation inside, amidst the womb-like hum of a dozen machines pulsing and the hypnotic fabric swirling in front of me. The anachronous furniture and decor make me forget this intrusive life I’m constantly trying and failing to adapt to; the white noise lets me hear myself think again, write again. It turns a chore into a chance to hide, even if only for twenty-three minutes, from the chaos outside its eternal door.



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