I am sat in a cafe watching the spiral galaxy of milk cool into being in the black night coffee before me.
I imagine a ballerina in a music box, sparkling, swirling; a segue into a memory faded in the sun and rain.
When it has settled, the liquid in the cup takes on a donkeyish colour, dun and homely.
I taste bittersweetness with a silent tongue.
And I take my time.
I am passing time.
Time.
How much do you get?
Fewer than a 1000 months.
I am wasting time.
