"Hot coffee; it soothes the throat, it nourishes the soul."
I'll have a cup of what he's drinking.
They sat around the fire that night snapping sticks, tossing them in. The California skies were larger, he was sure of it. At the coast, maybe it was the slender thread of silver shoreline that led him. He could peer down sitting atop that 40 foot boulder after meditation, after that knock on the RV door was a friend inviting him to awaken outside, to shape the wet sand with the soles of his feet, to shape himself one stretch, one deep breath at a time.
Now they bantered, sipped whiskey, sang songs. And there was always giggling out beyond them a ways, beyond the firelight.
"Nobody cares what you call it or where it even leads right now, I told you dude, your overthinking the entire thing."
"I know, I know... enjoy the process."
"Yeah that's f-ing right man, it's a process and wherever it goes -- electric or digital or old-fashioned bound or up to the screen or DVD or DVR... who the hell cares man... this is the process this is it... right here... you and I dreaming it up under these stars, beside this fire... this is it man, this is all it ever has to be. Until this is all life has to be there is just nothing, I mean nothing to write home about."
"That's where it is for you?"
"That's where it's at."
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