Coffee is not supposed to be sour. Tendrils of steam lick and coil up from the hot liquid. A performance that may have enticed me to want a drink if they’d been recorded in a pic or holo. But here, in front of me, and after the first taste. No.
Turning from the brown disappointment, I find the animal outside my window, grazing mechanically. Probably not dangerous but might be. I don’t have enough money to stay here much longer. The ticking of the old world clock becomes present, as if I needed another reminder. Couldn’t have afforded a weapon if I’d collected all my credits and bargained to the lowest, cheapest taker. Wouldn’t even have got close.
Not that weapons can protect me at this point. And safety was never really achievable to begin with. So I’ll keep scribbling here until it finds me or I’m forced out again by hunger or voidsmen.
In the meantime, I’ve got stories to tell.