—Love predicted, delivered, and returned unopened.
The model ran overnight.Inputs weighted.Patterns confirmed.Your name surfacedwith a confidence scorejust high enough to justify delivery.
The system knew your habits,late replies,warm coffee,a tendency to hesitateright before accepting thingsthat ask for more than efficiency.
A heart-shaped outcome was generated.Optimized for symmetry.Packaged…
—Coffee becomes aspirational heat. Present, visible, and rationed.
The coffee is hotin a way that feels ceremonial.You don’t rush it.Rushing wastes heat.
You wrap both hands around the mug,not to drink,but to borrowwhat the room won’t give.
Heat is expensive.You learn that early.Not metaphorically;literally.
The thermostat is a negotiation.The mug is a loophole.
Coffee offers warmthwithout…
—This is the day of quiet accounting; before gatherings, before noise, before expectation. A practical tenderness. A list not of possessions, but of survivals.
You begin without paper,because the list is physical.
The mug fits both hands.The chair doesn’t wobble.The radiator clicks, then behaves.A sweater dries where you left it.
Coffee warms the center of your chest,not enough to boast…
—The cold has settled into muscle memory, and instinct takes over. You’re no longer brewing for pleasure or precision; just for heat, for staying upright, for reminding the body it’s still inhabited.
You don’t measure anymore.The spoon goes in by feel,by the weight of the morningpressing on your wrists.
The coffee’s too strong, maybe.Or not strong enough.You’re past caring which,you stir…
—By now the daylight feels rationed. Evening spills into afternoon, and the math of the day never seems to add up.
The sun clocks out too early now,slipping through the brittle pineslike someone leaving work at noonwithout explaining why.
The numbers never balance right,you wake with less,you end with less,you carry what the daylight droppedin hurried, shrinking increments.
By four o’clock the…
—a day when the cold gets bold, and anything you forget outside becomes a small monument to your own distraction.
You find it on the railing,a circle of frost around its base,the coffee stilled into a dark,unyielding sheet of glass.
It holds your fingerprint in ice,a fossil of a warmer thought.The steam you meant to savor onceescaped before you even fought.
Snow gathers in the cooling rings,as…
—the kind of place where silence is a language and the only thing that brews anymore is suspicion
They say it opened just one day,in fields where wheat forgot to sway.No roads led in, no signs were hung,yet still the grinder softly sung.Its windows wept with morning steam,the silo shaped like someone’s dream.
No one served and none were seen.The menu changed with each ravineof frost along the…
—the intersection of caffeine and curse, brewed under blood moons and ancestral silence
She lived beyond the briar’s reach,in fog-wet woods with moss for speech.Her roof was thatch, her eyes were steam,she ground her beans inside a dream.And those who drank her haunted blendwere never quite the same again.
The taste was sharp as frostbit truth,it stripped the varnish off your youth.It brewed in…
—a reverent sip of origin and memory, carrying the hum of something ancient beneath the modern grind
It bloomed in scent, in smoke, in song,A taste that knew it’s where you’re from.The fruit was sharp, the body wild,A lineage dressed, un-reconciled.You drank, you paused, you heard it hum,The sound of roots you’d never come.
Each note a voice, each sip a prayer,A whispered truth, you borrowed…
—a tiny porcelain duel where nobody backs down, least of all the espresso
Two cups, two hands, the table bare,The crema stared, you matched the glare.No sugar stirred, no spoons allowed,Just bitter pride, no speaking loud.You drank, they drank, the silence stayed,A duel in sips, no debts repaid.
The taste was sharp, the body lean,A fight disguised as something clean.The shot was short, the…
—a tiny cup of sugared fury that doesn’t ask, it insists
It hit like fire wrapped in sweet,A candy slap, a sharpened treat.The sugar roared, the coffee burned,A lesson poured, a temper learned.You raised the cup, it stared you down,A tiny drink, but wore the crown.
It wasn’t kind, it wasn’t slow,It punched your gut, it made it show.The sweetness cut, the bitterness stayed,A duel inside the sip…
—here thick grounds settle at the bottom, promising prophecy but delivering only mud
The cup was small, the taste was fire,A darkened pool of old desire.It clung to lips, it stained the tongue,A ritual sung but wrongly sung.You tipped it slow, you swirled the rest,The dregs were there, the omen guessed.
You searched for signs, a face, a key,A hidden truth you’d fail to see.The grounds just sat,…
“In every way that counted, I was dead. Inside somewhere maybe I was screaming and weeping and howling like an animal, but that was another person deep inside, another person who had no access to the lips and face and mouth and head, so on the surface I just shrugged and smile and kept moving. If I could have physically passed away, just let it all go, like that, without doing anything, stepped out of life as easily as walking through a door I would have done. But I was going to sleep at night and waking in the morning, disappointed to be there and resigned to existence.”
#neilgaiman #bittergrounds #poamargo #fragilethings #coisasfrageis #books #livros #book #livro #photografy #fotografia #photo #foto (em A.E. Carvalho)
https://www.instagram.com/p/CKmJ6pRDhzP/?igshid=rzyv1cfdina8
Coconut oil. The skin around my eyes gets rubbed raw by glitter and brushes and this is so soothing.
this actually reallyreally helps because I need to go get some coconut oil to make lipstick