There is a new world evolving in the bottom of my Coffee Cup. I have been watching it for a week now. It is dry, arid. Lifeless. The cracked plane of dried coffee crystals is coated with an oil slick. A chocolate coloured snowflake spreading outwards and upwards. Each day I look at it, and then put it back on the universe of my desk. It seems as though it belongs there, a china and acrylic paint star in orbit around the white-lit Flatron sun.

     If I drowned the coffee cup world, tried to erase it from existence, it would eventually release itself from its porcelain crust. It would not dissolve; it would float to the surface, still a perfect flat disc. I allay the thoughts of ruin. I allow the world another day. Tomorrow I will look at it again. Contemplate its future. Return it to its universe next to the spent pen satellites and the single-serve milk-portion asteroid belt.

     I am here but I am not here. Mostly I am not here. My body is here, I am an expert at multi-tasking. My brain and body types, carries, sorts, files and collates. My heart and soul explores, creates, wonders and longs. There I am, and yet, there I am not.