on my table
spilled — like a rabbit on
a motorbike whisking by — no
It happened about two years ago or so, during breakfast, when I babysat my nephew of two. His curiosity brought about the image below.
I meant to write something about that whole occurrence, a memoir or a reflection, perhaps … oh, something about time and how fleeting it really is, but that never materialized after a few tries. And to be honest, I got tired of it because everybody knows how ephemeral time is; no need to hackney the subject further. So abandoned it I did.
This time, however, well, I haven’t a clue why I started writing about coffee. It escaped my mind; it really did. I’m not a big fan of it; I quite detest it. Therefore, I can’t figure out how the subject matter came about. One thing for sure: I know now why coffee works the way it does; it’s a rabbit thing after all this time. Amazingly, enough!