then writing. he sits in the dark with his thoughts and his coffee and his fingers on the keyboard and the synthetic sound of rain in his headphones keeping him at peace. his breath comes cool in through his nose and his belly swells with it; flows out easily. he stares into the middle distance. there is no particular idea in his mind about what to write; but there is a need to write - to find whatever it is that lurks in his chest. it is always there, that thing. his own dionysus. his duende. a roar that wants a mouth. he takes a moment to sip his coffee. over the years he has changed. he used to drink coffee milky and sweet; now it is black and bitter. his tea as well he takes this way. he has grown to love this about himself - the minimalistic; the austere nature of his desires. paring things back to their essence. finding the truth of them in this. his black coffee, untainted by milk or sweetner, is rich and full with depth of flavour. it is interesting, he thinks, that in pursuit of flavour that which we add strips away the nuances of what exists. as well he has found this in cooking. the jars of of pastes and sauces that once got splashed into pastas and curries, perhaps to compensate for the blandness of the mass produced stock, have vanished. now, he carefully selects only fresh vegetables and fruits vibrant with colour and vitality and flavour from the farmer's markets, cooks them minimally, spices them sparsely with coarse sea salt and fine grained pepper. in this way he has found meals to become simpler, and richer, more fulfilling, more satisfying. his music and his writing as well. when he was younger he sought flourish and floridity; as if by challenging himself to grandiose scales and verbose turns of prose he could prove his talent, might touch God with his greatness. over time it dawned on him that talent was found in control. in plucking the bass string precisely in time with the kick drum. in notes not played. in words unspoken. in juxtaposition. last night he dreamed of safety in two parts; having and not having; wanting and not wanting; hunting and being hunted and fleeing and finding nowhere to go. it was a dream of searching and not finding - houses with dirt floors and rooms with glassless windows that let in the cold winter air; his bed unmade and piled with dirty clothes - so unlike him! so far from where he has come that he found himself confused by his own behaviours and unsure of what this meant about who he was. his mother began the dream, but she moved on quickly without him, preoccupied by something else, and he then was lost. there was a house. there is always a house in a dream. he found it upon a mountain top to escape the cold only to discover it equally as bitter within. night was coming on. he did not want to stay but he did not know how to leave. the dark was watery. he felt young again, and very afraid. alone. uncertain of how to take charge, how to make his own decisions. he was still waiting for someone else to do this for him when he awoke.