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Milk softens what the world has burned.

We do not experience early summer. We are experienced as early summer.

The space is structured to make me forget I am contained.

We no longer consume to live. We live to consume. Savoring a latte is its ritual.

If the world were a book, a café would be its footnote.

Monday is not real. It’s a shared myth reinforced by clocks and contracts.

Once, temples reached for gods. Now, towers reach for markets.

Choose stillness in a world of motion. Embrace a café’s chaos in a world of overoptimization.

Brewed, chewed, renewed—ritual imbued.

Time is a fiction. Yet Monday is a fact.