So I'm taking it easy, enjoying the scenery, getting ready to clean an apartment building or two. So this isn't exactly a day off, just a day with a different job to it.
You're in a cafe: Not just any cafe, mind you, but the cafe. And you're drinking from a cup of coffee brimming with hints of nutmeg and cardamom, of date and persimmon. You breath in these dizzying aromas and blow upon it a cooling breath. The coffee stays just hot enough to burn your lips with a delicious burn that only adds to the drinking. It was on the advice of an acquaintance you had walked to this place through the cool, clear morning, the clouds stretching across the sky in wide, irregular bands of gray and white. You made your way through the downtown, through shaded parks and side streets, to the cafe, a well-kept secret. The ceilings here are high and the floor is dark wood. Customers sit by the windows, talking, or just enjoying the morning which promises somehow to go on forever. This is the cafe you've been dreaming about, the cafe at the end of desire. Because it exceeds desire. It defuses and leaps over the sweet harangue of desire. If Rumi had a cafe, this would be his.
Bob ;-)
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