But there’s a quality behind Dustin’s eyes when he talks, a dimness, like the slow fade of a dying flashlight. Like someone forgot to replace the batteries in Dustin’s face. This kind of emptiness can only be filled with heartache and struggle and I-don’t-know-what … the enormity of things. The shit-stink of life. And neither enormity nor shit-stink can be found in a pancake breakfast. Pain is what matters. Not fast cars or big words or fabulous stories in exotic settings. And certainly not some French-toasted-sunrise-sensei-servant-motherfucker.
