I spent a large part of today sitting at a cafe in Cluny Court just writing. I ordered a fruit popsicle and grape juice to legitimise my occupation of the small white table for about 2 and a half hours. First I tried to continue my study of Immanuel Kant (who has the same personality of Shakespeare and me!!!) but soon I got tired, and so i turned to my diary instead. (For some reason nowadays it takes less for me to pour out words than to take them in - unless it's poetry. Speak to me in rhymes and verse...) I finished writing about last Sunday and then wrote about this Sunday and my annoyance at my own confusion and confusion about whether I was justified to be confused (after finishing my written spiel I judged that I was)
It was very cathartic. I think I began to blend in with the furniture though, because a man came up to me and asked, " 'Scuse me, do you work here?"
After I said no, he went in and ordered a coffee and then sat outside reading magazines about architecture, with his bare feet propped up on a chair beside him.
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