Coffee

Black? No, with milk and sugar. A civilized drink, by all accounts. Sweet, aromatic, only with the finest freshly ground beans. I can taste the difference, I think. At least, I can’t help but wrinkle my nose and suppress the urge to dump the black tar that comes out of the office thermos. So surely, yes, I can taste the difference. Then again, it might just be the circumstances – after midnight anything with caffeine will taste better. Although it’s a fine drink to start your day with, something about coffee makes it a drink of the night. When your desklamp and a monitor is in stark contrast to the blackness outside, the drink somehow feels at home. It’s content to sit in my cup, lazily swirling as I type. In the morning it’s a swallow-and-go experience, almost as if it wants to disappear out of the sunlight. But at night it languishes, a stray cat outside your window – not a friend, but a presence, a fog through which the rest of the world loses shape. Opportunities bristling with anticipation to be pounced on, yet happily waiting until the cup is once again standing between printouts and cables – knowing full well that the cup touching the table starts the inevitable recession of those very opportunities so close just a second before. Nothing to do but pick up the warm ceramic again. Its not a dependence, that would imply a subjugation of myself – rather, it’s the feeling of an old friend I have a brief chance to confer with. I let life stream by for a little while, conversing, bringing up memories, making plans. Energized after this brief interlude I walk on – no plans to…

I digress, the cup is now empty, the visit is over, and Haskell doesn’t learn itself.

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