percolate

i'm enjoying this moment. it consists of me sitting in a fold-out-couch bed in an apartment on the border of paris, just outside the 19eme. it's cold outside, temperature gauge at the window says 5 degrees, which is warmer than yesterday, and explains why most of the snow has melted. the heating is on. i just made a percolated coffee and i sip from a yellow mug. i eat white chocolate with whole hazelnuts. i woke at 5am, unable to get back to sleep, still jetlagged. i've chatted to people back home and we compared notes on where we're at. it's almost xmas. a playful argument with essy is imbued with film and book recommendations, which i can't keep track of. i don't record them, but i know he'll remind me again. or maybe we'll watch some of these films back in sydney. i can't believe he didn't like crime and punishment. jessie is sick in bed, i'm just in bed. and there's intimacy and familiarity in such conversations which are as comforting as this coffee. i've not had coffee since i arrived here. the bad coffee in toyko made me give it up. and now i'm tasting a new, yet familiar, flavour. just as i'm tasting snow for the first time, and this apartment, which is strange to me despite my clothes hanging from the curtain rail, shower, and drying rack by the heater. since i stopped chatting (or rather, typing) to the folk back home, i can hear the silence. and my fingers tapping keys sound similar to snow tapping rooftops. but there's no snow today, just a softer shade of cold. and there's me, alone (but not alone) in this apartment. and there's me moving to the kitchen shortly, to take another cup of coffee.