good morning

I am such a product of my time that it scares me. Here, look at this photo:

That cup of coffee could be me: super sized, clad in black, perched next to a Mactop, and fancier than necessary. Still, I feel a sort of kinship with the other overpriced, highfalutin cups of coffee all over the country right now. We sit calmly in urban cafes, adjacent to the output of over-educated, underemployed brains (novels, grant proposals, poems, dissertations, articles, papers, scripts), witnessing the quiet birth of dreams and delusions of grandeur; we think, I am strong and I am special, I will make it through this morning, until we, self-absorbed, run dry and need to be refilled. Afternoon: repeat. Evening: repeat. Night: repeat, repeat. This is not an underground economy so much as an ethereal one, sliding by on the surface of a future that doesn’t quite fit until a toe gets caught, the contents spill, and we find that we have transformed into a stain-ringed mug or a paper cup poised under a pod coffee maker, ready to receive our prepackaged 9am anointment. And all we can do to keep from going insane is gaze lovingly, in the post-supper glow, at our brood of colorful enamel espresso mugs–which are getting bigger by the day–and hope that their cafe dreams are as deep and rich as ours once were.

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