The story isn’t much, but if you’ll allow I’d like to get it stacked. My suspicions were correct. Last night was special. Currently, it is my morning: 2:27 pm. “Lisztomania” lilts from a business district friendly playlist. Like a mess to the masses, I’m the sole sipper sat at the amoebic, reclaimed wooden community table of Temple Roasters. I’m a bit banged up from yesterday’s show. My more resilient, nearly vintage, rose Macbook Air charges as I revel in the ubiquity of grown-up coffee and vegan pastries. 2026 allows for much greater ease of awakenings on the road. I skipped the orange peel muffin. The sympathetic barista behind me confirmed that they are potently sweet. I’d eyed them. Even through the glass case I could feel their bite like supernovas upon my teeth. Guided by the better poetry of an oat milk cortado, I’ll recount a bit of April 23rd as I await my Lyft to the airport.
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