coffebeans

Watch the freeway slink by in a casual melt of metal and taillights, and I am content in starbucks with my gingerbread latte on table.
I have The Decemberists playing so I am thematically coordinated, but in fantastic unobviously obvious ways. Surrounded by the studious quiet of students beginning dead-week with the promise of Christmas thin and distant at ten days away I sit and type this note to you, but also a statement for The Farm: the statement that may give purpose to my life.
It feels good to write something again that I don’t have to pay to have read that I don’t even really know will ever be read, really . . .
So, when it comes time for you to pack your suitcase and move on to the next place that you will come to be. When your syntax must once again change and the places you sleep; and the liquid in your mug is no longer what it once was. Send a postcard back to the one you were in that time before and when the cool autumn air strikes your cheek in a way so familiar it must have always been the same; it is not; it too has changed, but allow yourself for a moment to remember that it has always been as this.
But most importantly, hold back nothing from the other that is to come. Whether your efforts amount to success and happiness in the next lifetime or simply expensive wall décor matters not; it is not your place to be stingy. :P