My voice is silenced. I do not know what or who cast the stopper, but I am practically mute. Only with the ink or the skeleton keys pounding can I evoke precious words. Pain slices at my throat failing feverishly, yet the semblance of ink carries on. And the coffee, O the coffee keeps me running like a misfiring 3.8L Camaro engine. We will be fixed in a day or two, but for now the rich scent of Colombian bean permeates me with the most exotically delicate flavorful scene. Silence me, you must be joking? I carry on. Write on. Always. Write. O Coffee How I Adore Thee.
By R.J. Huneke
By R.J. Huneke
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