I'm willfully ironing everything out of my days like I dare myself to have nothing left, and it is impossible, really, for everything is something, even the three cups of coffee and nothing else, unless you practise a kind of disobedient inattention. No, goddamn it, I shall not be made words! I am just a cup of coffee and you don't even notice that I am here, for thinking about me makes you wonder about Bashō and his bowl of water and heaven only knows what other stifling literary crap. Shut up! Shut up shut up! I fear how much I want you to be everything, everywhere, even in my toast and jam so I pretend that I don't want you here.