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Night I am more familiar with the moon, than I am with the sun. To me the moon holds cool serenity, and gentle revelation to the things unseen. I have grown to relish these things, whether small or large, only because I have spent so many nights awake among them. Even now, as I hold my pen in my hand, the moon is full; shining dimly through my window and onto my floor. I smile a little as a bat flutters by. He is just one of the many creatures that makes night his own, and I'm slightly jealous.
I wonder what it'd be like to fly at night. Trusting only my primal senses to guide my way within the black. Up and out my window I'd soar, and through the trees to the open fields. Up, and up I'd go, until I touch the stars, and snatch one to my pocket to bring home with me.
As I would flit through the clouds and back down to earth, I would let out a laugh, and twist to complete
Frigid Existence I inhale the frigid air, and my eyes water. Winter is like that here; cold can steal your very breath from your lungs, but within an hour, the sun warms everything again.
Right now, its below zero degrees, and the seven inches of snow groans as I trudge across its pure white surface. I have no idea why I chose to walk outside today; I suppose the silent surreality of my winter wonderland finally drew me away from the shelter of home.
I love the silence. Winter puts all but the bravest to sleep, and today... even the lonely wail of the wind is still. Not even a single snowflake falls either. It seems as though Winter itself has fallen quietly back, and is admiring its own handiwork.
Everything glitters blindingly from the morning sun, and I squint against the numb assault. The trees usually shelter the sun's ever-gleaming rays from my eyes, but ice has bent the bare boughs to let light do
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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