The Coffee Chronicles

Sometimes, despite my best intentions, I find that I have nothing to write. It's like suddenly finding myself without a voice, in a crowd, lost; as a once-sighted man who must find his way by touch, I stumble. Why this mute futility? And O My Soul, what will then be left of me?

I wonder if it is the night that brings this madness, as brain switches open and close, wildly, a short-circuiting of rhythms. But I am yet acquainted with this dysfunction; I am familiar with this quiet, solitary insanity. A twisting, gnawing perception that something must be said (O the Cost), and so the stumbling. In the parlance of days past, it was the forcing of pen to paper that bled my intent dry, spilling out thickly, like ink; nowadays, a slack jaw and a staring, open-mouthedly, with face luminous. But, yet, the same.

Sleep calls. And I go, reluctantly despite my stuttering exhaustion, to bed. But carrying, always carrying, the faint memory of this magnificent solitude, like the bitter that follows sweet.

I think that this says all that need be said, for now. Of course, it's not like it's news for the West Coast. As far as recent years go, this is nothing unusual.

I mean, it's not like I'd rather be spending my money on, say, food for example. Naw.