Canal St. Regular. Regular. You ever walk into a dingy laundromat, hungry for escape, only to find a busted dryer serenading you with Yanni's 'Rebirth'—looped, distorted, its vents wheezing like a dying cyberpunk deity? It's the soundtrack to my mental health. The notes climb, curl, beg for redemption. Just heat, noise, and the faint smell of lint and ketamine. I lean in, palms on the dryer's cold metal, whisper: 'I know that ache.' Yanni wails through metal guts. I stay. Until sunrise.