I thought I liked to write in coffee shops. Maybe this one isn't busy enough. There's quiet music, an occasional blender, not enough conversation to become a din. My ears can't help picking out every voice. My eyes get caught up in the humans walking by the large glass window. I keep pausing for a sip of coffee grown cold. I am distractible. 

I like the soft light of my living room with candles flickering on all sides, curtains drawn, legs sprawled out, loud ambient music from my speakers. There is magic in that space, the magic we all seek that flies away fast if we're too quick to seize it.