When I Was Writing in a Cafe in Prague

November 22, or something like that.

Lovely cafe in which I do not know the name, next to another European clock tower and a bell that strikes upon the hour tick tick ticking away the seconds that make up Evy and I drinking lattes and eating cakes in a foreign place.

Wandering along the slippery cobblestone path, an indulgence, a tiresome dance between coffee and beer and long mornings sleeping with the cold air coming in through the window.

This place has decorative tiles, imperfect concrete walls supporting high ceilings abstract paintings for the contemplation of the consumer the ponderings of an American who can’t sit still obsessing over the future, reading Eckhart Tolle to cease the dwell.

Is it possible, to be all that I wish to be to live out the stories I tell in my mind, the visions of a life existing in a raindrop of time.

Tis a compulsion to live almost exclusively through memory and anticipation.