Three coffee beans and a white brick wall stare at me as I type this. Awash in the winter sun streaming through the back of my head, I can see my reflection look back at me as I type this. A faint smile appears. I seem to have stumbled into myself today. And happy to announce I liked what I saw. Like an old friend who you know inside out, but pretend the regular niceties before getting to the actual meaty, juicy stuff that binds you both.
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In another world, being happy and satisfied in the manner I find myself, is the arch-enemy of writing, is it not? At least for me it is. Conundrum then, is it not?
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