There was smooth jazz playing in the kitchen, wind whisked in through the white curtains who danced in small and slight grace. Smell of toast and peanut butter, a salve of home and warmth and love. The cat hid somewhere in another room, gradient of dark brown to beige to white puffing up and deflating slightly with each contented breath. And coffee. Yes the world can endure much, but no coffee at breakfast? Savor the small. Size can be underestimated, we know this but easily forget.
The swirl of the milk into the brown abyss is a truly mesmerizing scene. Too often hurried along to be honest with time; but I have you here, so you shall know what the spoon steals. The small stream enters at first rather innocently, but! The slightest increase of the angle of a wrist and it swirls in grand shapes. Explosions of milky smoke clouding this way and that, us marveling at the ceramic mug for its containment of the volcanic eruption. It becomes dark, the milky clouds vanished, in a deeper twilight of soot and ash. Then suddenly, the dust-covered skies part and the warmth of unity breaks. And to think that while others have struck the scene with silver then left without a glance, we have witnessed a world in a mug survive volcanic eruption for the cost of ten spare seconds.
There is stillness and silence in the bathroom upstairs, but in the bedroom on the nightstand is a watch. Brown leather wrist strap, with fine gold stitches along the sides. Roman numerals adorn. Quartz. January 28. It seems that all is still. But when you sink into it, there comes that sound. A ticking. A reminder. And suddenly the moment recognizes its invalidity and is replaced. The watch is latched and it clings to the wrist that carries a briefcase through the front door and on and on.
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