I wake up, crawl down to our kitchen, concentrate my mind in a zen-like effort to pour a spoon of nescafe into a huuuge mug, pour water out of our kettle in it and wait for the day to begin. Slowly.
But my neighbour jumps out of the bed, makes his body excercises, joggs into the kitchen, warms up his tiny, little espresso cup, cooks water once, down the drain with it – bleech!, cooks water again, grinds fresh italian coffee-beans from virgin, ecolocigal columbian exclusively coffee-shrubs, starts his one-thousand-dollar coffee-making, high-tech, italian national anthem-playing, espresso-latte-cappuccino machine and sips two drops of oily, gourmet-coffee made with canadian ice-water. And he tells me he is ultimately refreshed, revived, alive, potent and generally a killer-drone. He gets sex thrice a day with wive, lover and boss, is rich and will live to a hundred’n’twenty-sumpthin. Though his chidren can not pronounce “daddy” properly, I sometimes envy him, when I crawl back to my kitchen for another half litre of sugared, milked nescafe, moaning. But most of the time I don’t mind. There are many elf-like coffee drinkers like my neighbour and they make art out of their coffees. Bravo! Go on! L’art pour l’art!
Latte Art
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