Apathetic service in a space where service is the primary function. Lounging carefully and quietly behind laptops and ceramic mugs and some overpriced snacks. Found the spot. The quiet space that isn’t the bed and it isn’t the driveway. Perhaps that other space that can produce endorphins and good vibes. Maybe it isn’t this space? Maybe it’s another. The important piece is to keep getting out in the world. Try new things. Go new places. Feel things that are pleasant. Look out the window. Go through the door. Walk, but don’t play the drums. Those are for drummers. Same with guitars. Those belong to rock stars and people named Bruce and your name isn’t Bruce. It’s Chris. That is your name and drumming and guitar playing are not for you. You write words and take pictures. Stick with that. Stay away from caffeine, too. A cup in the morning is good for you, but after that drink water or tea. Sugary drinks are bad. You know this. Stay away. Even though we ain’t got money, I’m so in love with you honey. Lyrics. Airwaves. Brick walls and a countertop table that slides when it’s pushed. Not in a good way. In a bad way. Like the kind of way that suggests that maybe the construction is poor. It’s likely not a refection on the curators of this space. Rather a solution to a problem that once existed and then no longer did, but somehow has become a different problem that currently exists on a list toward the bottom. It’s just a table and this is just a coffee shop and nobody or any one thing is perfect. Everything is fine. It always has been. It always will be. Especially with headphones. Or at least that’s the impression I get from looking around this room. Headphones and coffee cups. Or mugs. I can’t be certain as the aura here is certainly one of art and artistic value. So cup is probably degrading or demeaning. I bet these are mugs. Fancy ones. Ones that were hand-crafted by some struggling genius that has yet to be discovered. Fired in a kiln that was made by hand behind some old rustic farmhouse. These are the mugs that will be handed down from generation to generation. The kind that will end up under glass in some museum of the future. But…how can that be? How could that be the future for all these mugs if they’re here? Here lining these shelves and waiting quietly for some new address to call home? Perhaps I have it all wrong? Perhaps there is no museum? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…