Stillwater

He reached out for the cup of coffee, sipping it without pause. He glanced at it as he put it back on the messily anonymous table. It looked the same as it did everyday. It tasted the same. Today felt the same as yesterday, as the day before- one day was segueing into the other this week.
He paused, recognizing in this observation both pitfalls, and potential. Where was this mundanness going? [ Why was it mundane-ness? Mundanity sounds so much better. As good or not as wastefulness and laze and lack of discipline, he dryly thought.]

There was that germ of a great idea he could revisit, the promise of that piece he could finish. The pondering of a future with a reasonable amount of reality or resoluteness, that was an option. Every reasonable, or reasonably interesting, thought he had thought in the last 10 days, it waited to be spoken to, caressed, expressed. But they needn’t have held their breath.

He reached out for the coffee. It would get cold soon.