Morning Coffee Is Bitter by Nature

The five hundred meters from the subway to the office are the quietest part of my day. When I step into an office where there are no voices yet, the monitor I left last night is where I left it last night. I brew a cup of coffee and look out the window. One by one, the buildings across the way turn on their lights too. Everyone gets up at the same time and goes to a different seat, I think. It seems I came in a little earlier than yesterday, but once I sit down, it feels a little later than yesterday. Before opening my inbox, I write down what I have to do today. It's not much different from what I wrote yesterday. Still, writing it down makes it feel as if the day starts somewhere. Repeating days aren't meaningless, and sometimes the repetition itself seems to be the meaning. The bungeoppang I bought on the way in is still a little warm. Eaten with vending-machine coffee, today the coffee somehow isn't bitter. Ah, I didn't put sugar in it. I drink it anyway. This taste is part of the morning too.