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Nicholas Powell writes an ode to coffee, quality time, and the gender-assigning of objects, and it all might just be a metaphor.

Every night, just as the owls and the birds and the rustling trees began to take over the noises of traffic and coughing cars spitting out fumes, my mind would stare into the manufactured glow of a set of computer monitors on my desk. Each of the three monitors, with its battered bamboo top and stainless-steel legs, displaying various texts of all sizes. From misshapen, rotted scraps of poetry to a seemingly unending list of never-quite-done-but-they’ll-be-done-eventually manuscripts.

Occasionally, in an attempt to dodge the use of better phrases like “almost never” and “probably one day,” I would peck at the bulged keys of the keyboard, wrapping myself in the odd comfort of a cold blanket, nursing a warm cup of coffee. When not doing that, I would scroll through news feeds from various countries and locals, like now, pondering how the enjoyment of coffee, no matter color or creed of the mug, was being taken around the world. …

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