The Night That Coffee Stole: A Contemplation on the Cup and the Quiet Hours
A Personal Confession at the Kitchen Table
I write these words in the early morning, when the sky above the Estonian forest still holds the grey-blue color of something not yet decided. It is the hour when the birds begin their first tentative songs, and the dew lies heavy on the meadow grass. I have been awake since four, not because I chose to rise, but because the night did not give me what it should have given. Continue reading “The Night That Coffee Stole: A Contemplation on the Cup and the Quiet Hours”