Coffee Shop

I am in a little coffee shop trying to concentrate on my work and thinking of writing. It really doesn't matter what I write. I want to dedicate my days to writing and reading. I am currently reading E.M. Forster. I am reading a collection of his posthumous work. This concept freaks me out a little bit. I always wonder if it was meant to be published at all. It is sad to think about how we commercialize creation. ...I digress. When he died they found all manor of unpublished works. There were plays, poems, short stories, essays, talks....and that is before you consider that he also had letters diaries and notebooks. Right now this is the best I can do..This and my emails and about a poem a month. My fingers are sore anyway.
I love this moment because I am listening to beautiful music with my book nearby. There are ideas everywhere and there was a bird here. The door opened and a bird flew in. It stayed over the place where my head is. The door stayed opened and the sun came in to be part of the idea of a Sunday afternoon. I was comforted by the idea of a creature hanging with us while people screamed for fear that this being might attack him. Strange.