That brown earthy aroma of ground coffee in a wicked alliance with rum is made homelier with a deliberate allowance of vanilla essence, or so I surmised today, as I took the first coveted sip and felt the beverage warm my insides like an old friend. I have been mellow like water, flowing about the house; a placid rivulet, compliantly following the course that is my due. Upon the table, shimmying upon the remnants of this potion, legible through the clear bottom of the cup, are words in my new notebook. Distorted by the irregular finishing of the glass they read:
“Language is a shared inheritance and no writing takes place in oblivion.”
Story Of The Footloose 