The Dance of the Centaurs

'We are too much alike.'

Without reasons I find myself confessing to the cup of coffee waiting over the table that which have been tormenting my dreams for months. It is obvious that from its silence, vaporous, aromatic presence no words will come to comfort my troubled mind, so it is better to just drink the coffee and not saying anything while I enjoy my breakfast. I am aware of the ephemeral character of this pleasure, of any pleasure. My bed is empty again... after a night of rampant passion your body is no more than a memory.