He decides he can’t write about fast food anymore; can’t sit in the plastic booth and watch the people who cook it, or who come in to eat it day after day as if cooking and eating fast food were just another part of everyday life. Even the air, even the sunlight streaming in through the huge windows, even the everyday chatter of the diners feels foreign to him now; even the smiles of the uniformed crew seem like zombie smiles, seem—at best—painted on.

Maybe it’s the change of seasons, the summer braking and decelerating into autumn, everything moving indoors for shelter, but finding that nothing ever changes; that greaseburgers and oilies remain the same regardless of season, regardless of changes of appetite or inclination. Maybe he’s just reached his fast food limit or, sensing impending hibernation, something inside him demands more substantial sustenance to prepare for him for what lies ahead.

He closes the journal, thinks about where to open it next. The door closes automatically behind him and colorful leaves do an inviting little dance at his feet.