Sitting in the Cafe Strange. The Cafe Strange is not a clean, well-lighted place. It is grungy and dim and dirty and is filled with the loser class sitting with laptops and coffees or teas. They are a sad but arrogant lot. It is fun to sit there and be an irritant, for I know they hate me. I am too old to be in such a place.
It probably isn't true, though, that they hate me. It is only that I would were I them. No, that is not true, either. Truths are hard to come by these days.
The difficult thing about coming home is the absence of the cat. The last time I lived here alone, it was the two of us. There is an emptiness now without her that I hadn't realized before. The first day I came home after Ili moved, I stood on the deck waiting for kit-kat to come running up with her daily complaint, but there was nothing but the new silence. And it is new. The cat had been here a very long time.
I go to bed feeling fine, and wake that way, too. It is the other part that is difficult. A lethargy and listlessness that I must battle. I must find a devil to drive me.
Late in the afternoon, now, I go to the cafe for one St. Bernardus ale, to sit, to look, to write. I go out into the world in a different way. Something must come from it or I have become nothing.
From nothing comes only silence.
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