My espresso machine is psychic. When I am not at peace, it makes a gritty, sooty coffee. When I am good, at one with my world, it makes a beautiful, creamy café. It matters not if you believe me. It took awhile to finally admit it myself. But now there is no denying it. Like yesterday. After I left you. And even though it was so wonderful to see you again, my friend. We threw our innocence away, and I fear it will estrange you from me. What have we done, I wonder, as I sip my mug of mud.