Sleepy Coffee Shops

Sleepy coffee shops are the fresh side of the pillow for writers.

They spill in with their licked paintbrushes. Dipping them in hot coffee, before splashing them on blank canvas. Microsoft Word, most likely.

What a mess. (Creativity). Staff frantically pick up fallen words from the floor and hand them back to humongous cats with thick moustaches, who bask boastingly on bulky brown, leather armchairs. Encircled in cigar smoke.

A lady’s hands are shaking as she hands the words back, trying to keep them in some sort of order. Desperate for a good review and her daughter back home. The cats, meanwhile, have musings of milk on their whiskers.

Giggling; grinning; roaring with laughter amongst themselves. They have a few hours yet.

I was eating kiwi in my boxers six minutes ago... and now I’m here. Looking for a pocket of quiet, but finding myself enchanted and fuelled in this absurd scene.

This is a cool feeling. Writing words even the gravity of time won’t blow away. Anchored in black ink. Embellished by black coffee.

My first girlfriend took it black, and I guess I’ve always taken it that way since. It’s funny how history can paddle around the margins of our consciousness.

Anyway, I think I’ll have another coffee.