Ode to thinking in my local cafe

by themapofantarctica

You were the man who sat and thought for hours, not spending more than it cost for a single cup of black coffee. You were waiting and it was Sunday, just like every weekend. They opened and closed the awnings like they didn’t know what they were doing. They didn’t care how they looked. They were working. You were alone and you sat in the corner where you could see the community of poets. The first time you came here you were new to the city. You read Bukowski and thought that he probably spent years rooted to the spot. All you wanted was a local cafe. Now that you have it you know you are safe. After a few hours in its grasp you have to try your hardest to remember the outside world, full of machineries, full of movement, full of people. There is nothing you need out there.

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