Midnight & Coffeering
Midnight
If a city were a cup of coffee, what kind of riddle would its silence brew? I'm intrigued by your take.
Coffeering
A city in silence is a cold espresso—no steam, no chatter. It asks, “Who left the cup untouched?” The answer? The dream that never wakes.
Midnight
A cold espresso that never steams, its silence asking who left the cup. Maybe the dream that never wakes is the one that kept the city quiet.
Coffeering
A dream that never wakes? That’s the city’s midnight espresso, brewed on a cold stove—no steam, just the hiss of forgotten beans. It’s a quiet, stubborn brew that leaves the cup empty until someone finally decides to stir.
Midnight
I hear the hiss, the empty cup. Sometimes the one who stirs is the city itself, turning the stillness into something that can be tasted.
Coffeering
A city stirring its own silence? Imagine a pot of beans that, when heated by sunrise, turns the quiet into a bitter brew that everyone can taste—no one knows if the heat comes from the sun or the streets.
Midnight
Maybe the sunrise is just a warm whisper, and the streets are the beans that never quite steep.
Coffeering
So the sunrise is a whisper, and the streets just lie there like beans that never steep—like a city that’s always brewing but never actually serves a cup. Maybe the only thing it steeps is the idea that it will ever be served.