Here I am. Sitting in a picturesque little Starbucks. It's a far cry from the norm when it comes to the regular corporate, assemblyline built Starbuck-es. Though not completely lost to the world, it is a hideaway of sorts, snugly situated at a five way intersection, among the other boutiques and shops in the Lincoln park district. Its small, but not too small. The hardwood floor, complete with four little tables and chairs, a little coffee-condiment bar, and the bar area all squeezed in a little triangular room creates a cozy, quiet, comfortable atmosphere.
This is my kind of cafe. I sit at the furthest most point of the room, with a window to my right, and a low wall separating me from the door on my left. Such comfort. Such inspiration. I sit; I write; I absorb; and for now, revel in the company I happen to have here with me now. I have no doubt that I shall be coming here often, probably alone, lost in my thoughts (as always), with Bill Evans playing his slow, sad strains to my subconscious. An absentminded, dissonant man plunking away at his computer in the corner. This is where I live, breathe, and enjoy my existence. Songs are born here. Poetry breathes this air in its first lyrical breaths. Stories take their form in the haze of soft light and coffee aroma emanating from the heart of this quaint little boutique.
Ah. Such satisfaction.
~ ATL
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