This morning I made myself coffee that was perhaps really two cups’ worth in one mug. It was black as evening in a far flung province, the kind that doesn’t go darker as the night grows deeper, where 6pm and 12mn are equally intense, and stepping out of a well-lit house is like stepping into the void.

And as quiet, too. The type of quiet that is self-confident and potent. My coffee looked back at me silently and dared to be sipped. So I did, and I finished it, and now I seem to have the wind knocked out of me a little. But it was one of the best I’ve had in a while. A good way to forget the MRT madness this morning where I heard all sorts of epiteths and witnessed catfights in the works and got squeezed like an almost-empty tube of toothpaste on my way out.