Traveling through space while entertaining a nervous relationship with a cup of burned coffee in a paper cup. It is ten in the morning and the daily cast of characters spending their morning at the local Starbucks has arrived and settled at their tables. No kids yet, mothers in Yoga outfits chatting idly over iced green tea, a couple of unemployed writers pretending to write a novel. The coffee is not quite hot and the milk in it emits a slightly nauseating, fatty smell. Panorama windows frame the store fronts on the other side of the street with their display of black and white pictures of hip people in hip clothing like a piece of corporate art in the lobby of some high rise office building. The tall guy at the adjacent table who never takes off his faded blue utilitarian coat has ceremoniously unpacked his briefcase and carefully arranged a set of gel pens and a journal next to his venti latte. His face twitches nervously as if he was about to loose his patience with mankind any moment now but he is forever just quietly drawing sad faces into his journal, badly executed despite the fact that this is basically what he does every day: scribble multi-colored (red, yellow, neon green, blue) sad faces into his journal and hope that someone watching him thinks he might be some kind of well known artist incognito. Nobody ever addresses him though and so he keeps casting aggressive glances over to the other tables where people are too absorbed in their own conversation to ever notice that they are so lucky as to share this space with him who might be almost famous if he was known for a body of work he has not been able to conceive yet. If, every once in a while, someone coming into the store accidentally smiles at him, he disintegrates right in front of everybody’s eyes and responds with a big, sweet, grateful if a bit out of practice smile.