What is it that I love about coffee so much? I mean, it makes sense to love really amazing coffee. I had this raspberry chocolate coffee at my friend Michelle's graduation party back in high school, and I probably had enough cups to leave me on the toilet for long enough to read Tale of Two Cities in a jittery epileptic craze. That's understandable because it was a fantastic flavored legal stimulate that makes you seem like an adult for whatever societal explanation that goes without saying. But what about the shitty coffee that looks likes swamp puddles and tastes like brown water sprinkled with cigarette ash? I like the idea of coffee in the morning, even when my stomach gets more acidic than peroxide, and my intestines get so pissed that they practically crawl out of my body just to give me the finger. I don't have coffee all the time only because I have to be friends with my intestines. Seriously, you don't want those guys being mad at you for too long because if they start acting up, no matter if the coffee was Irish Crème with an International Delight French Vanilla creamer, you'll regret every sip. Still, there is something so Paris about a cup of coffee. I feel like every poem was written by a steaming mug. There is an elegance about coffee, even when it comes in a rugged style like a stained cup at an all-night diner with a neon sign that only blinks the D and N. It serves as a companion in countless songs. I couldn't even resist including it in Suffocating, and I'm sure it'll make a cameo in songs to come. I love the relationship between an individual and his beloved cup of coffee. Its predictability, its signature of comfort and nonchalance. How many lovers have been created and destroyed with a full cup by their quivering hands and sweating palms? It is the beauty of simplicity that makes itself known in so many forms.

I need a thesaurus. I don't know where that book runs off to, but I think I've bought three in my life, each time bringing me a string of words that color in every crevice of a speckled page. There are so many words that are so vibrant that I forget about. An entire language spilling over with tickling details, and we rehash the most obvious adjectives that come to mind. I remember learning in high school about the power of a good verb. My verb vocabulary is as thin as a silk slip. I admire the writers who know how to splash perfume to a sentence that gives it just that perfect aromatic mix of loveliness and honesty. Language has a power that only those with the secret can control, the secret that lies within the rusty pages of a thesaurus.

Whenever you ask a group of people what super power they would want if they could choose one, you will never lack a person who wishes to fly. This has always bothered me because no one considers the reality of the world around you. They assume that in having this super power, it will exist in a world where it will be universally accepted. Truth is, if you could fly, then you would be the person in the world who could fly. Yes, I know that statement sounds obvious, but it isn't because not a person who wishes to fly thinks about the fact that if you were the only person to fly, your life would be to serve others. Yes, you would have to be superman no matter what kind of heart you have. The research doctors and authors would do on you would be endless. People would expect you to use your power to help the world at all times, to save every person who might fall. Everyone would know who you are and want you to take them flying. People would only date you because you'd take them flying. The social pressure would be significant and intolerable. This wasn't supposed to be what I was going to talk about. What I meant to discuss was wings.

Most people would prefer to fly in this non-existing accepting world by just shooting up into the air. I think the human race would be so much more beautiful if we had wings. I've ALWAYS wanted wings. I don't know what color, maybe you could change the color. Well, imagine what the world would be like if we had wings. Firstly, in this imaginary world of mine, these wings fold up into your back and then can expand to enormous angel size that can wrap around your entire body. They would be thin, but the strongest muscles and durable bones you have. That's the funniest image to me: you'd have to keep them in good shape to be a good flyer. Flying would take just as much energy out of you as running. People would be flying as exercise. There'd be people in the gym with wing weights doing flapping reps to get their wings to be as muscular as possible. The Yoga types would have slim, flexible wings that could flap in graceful strides. People could fight with them, blocking punches with their wings. Men would be judged by their wingspan. Women by the fluffiness of their feathers. Can you imagine choreography in martial art movies and music videos? Yes, I would definitely wish for good wings.