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.
...
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?
