2 november

It was something of an alchemy, he supposed. As if coffee and time could make magic of blank space. As if a caffeinated atmosphere carried a certain charge one could conduct by holding a pen at just the right angle -- although not a right angle, he reasoned. That wouldn't be right. He held the spoon in his writing stance -- or would you say 'grip'? Get a grip, he told himself. The spoon said nothing.