My Coffee, mine alone.

This is something different. A cup of coffee, I mean. It reminds me of some funny things. Funny, did I say?

Take that trump for instance. Smiling at me from the wall. I can’t escape the sadness of his eyes. They are almost like the stretch of a lonely ocean, beneath the contempt of regular sunshine. Shades within our little box, part of our everyday grass and concrete. That’s my coffee, thank you.

See that dirty lane, just between the two roads? That’s desolation row for many of us. It’s somewhere in the middle of deliberate choice-domains, a zone of counter-culture that defies the two-faced basilisk of everyday routine. At times, I try to steal a glance of a lonely violin-player, and his shadow, to attune myself to the orchestra of light and darkness. That’s coffee for me, you know.

A little girl on her granny’s lap. Pearldrops. Trains and their glaring lights piercing the vision of innocence. She is nowhere to be found among the garbage and the flowers, even after all these years of randomness. Still, how I wish to travel blind! The sun pours down like honey, and I wish I could stir it into my cup of coffee. It’s been my longing for aeons.