I barely have something to say to the world besides the marginalia, the little notices of joy and mirth, and sometimes the occasional sigh of melancholy. While one may call it my humility, I call it the truth. I sit here and pretend to have something to say, but what is it that I aim to tell, that I attempt to shout? Drink your coffee and have a grand time doing it. This is all I have told people in conversation, in writing, and, often, in passing. Do not take the answers at face value; find your own way to live, and then find another way to do it when your solutions inevitably run their course, as they often will. And then, when you find your footing, use it to walk to the café still and get a cup of tea, if the hour seems inappropriate for coffee. And if you are so daring, then be it: get a coffee still!
And while there is a figurative quality to it, I wish for you to not read between the lines for a change and take this as literally as it appears. These words are as explicit as the numbers we read and surrender to day after day. And I say this only because tonight I have nothing to say, and if I had something to say in the morning, I have long forgotten and left that train of thought behind. Now, I simply sit here, striking off a task, a chore, and in it, I have brought myself to jot the truth down, which, by all standards, suggests I have exceeded expectations. Whose? Mine, of course; there are no strings on me.