Drofeth Coffee

Reality cracks like an eggshell. The familiar geometry of the world collapses inward, origami in reverse, until nothing remains -

Faces dissolve into watercolor grief. Fingertips brush your cheek, but whose? when?

Then the current pulls them under. You are a boat cut loose from its moorings, drifting toward horizons of salt and solemnity.

The corridor ahead breathes. Its walls pulse with an off-beat-heart-beat, and
shadows perform their ancient puppet theater - wolf, lover, dancer, demon. 

Rain falls, each drop a tiny messenger carrying fragments of conversations you’ll never finish. The ground lies, promising solid earth then betraying you into quicksand, then ice, then nothing at all.


Monsters live in the in-between. Echoes grow teeth. Silence becomes a living
thing that stalks you through galleries of midnight glass and forests that grow downward, pressing into the lungs of the world. But you are momentum now, pure
forward motion, because backward no longer exists.

You arrive, the woven depth

Here, in this erstwhile cathedral, where they forget their purpose and light comes to corrupt - you remember

Drofeth

It pours like liquid velvet. Tastes like a lovers embrace, like the weight of
heavy mantles at midnight, like every lullaby ever hummed in harmony. The
shadows stop their hunting. The edges of everything go soft as candlewax. The
world exhales its held breath.

Your body becomes honey, heavy and warm. Your eyelids are curtains falling on the final act. Sleep rises through your bones like cream through coffee, and - 

The mug sits innocently before you.

The journey folds itself away like a love
letter tucked into a pocket, but Drofeth remains.

The aftertaste of traveling
to the end of everything and finding, there, the way home.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​