Cafe, Etc.
"I don't know but it might be exactly where the Coffee-house is now." - Mr. Spectator
I’ve been here before; I think. The cafe at the crossroad of my solipsistic fantasies and the Library of Extramundanity, but how did I get here? Cafe, Etc has no doors, no windows, nor coffee, food, or drink. It’s built from stories across the Shelf, filtered through the echoes of the conversations heard and felt and thought inside.
Perhaps we came here through that single pen stroke that holds more weight, more resistance than your standard, mindless swipe.
Perhaps, the hand behind my story’s quill got bored and wanted to bring me somewhere new, or maybe I escaped its grasp. A corregendum at the rightmost, bottommost corner of the paper, where everything before became a jumbled mess of lost ideas and fumbled curiosity. Because every paper starts and ends as pulp. Every drop of ink spilled from the life and death of every drop before it, and all of it will end up in the bin, but Cafe, Etc… has no bins, either.