I hate black coffee

The drums are beating in my headphones as the snow comes down with no end in sight. People without names stare forward as they pass by the windows of the coffee shop I have decided to camp out in. To me, the people in this town have no names. They are just natives to a foreign land. I drink black coffee now, instead of the old two sugars and two creamers. I remember once talking with friends in my hometown how you could tell us apart the way we took our coffee, like a fingerprint. She didn’t use cream but she used sugar. He took it black. He changed every now and then and was pretty new to coffee in general. This is all superficial though, and I know not what the point I was making was. I expected that the coffee shop I parked myself in would have wifi. It doesn’t. I consider moving shop down to the starbucks two shops over where I know they will have Internet. I don’t want to miss any opportunities of talking to friends back home. Back home. I’ve come to the realization that my old town will always be my hometown. You can never escape its whirlpool like effect. Not forever. I want some direction. I want to commit to something or someone. I want to nurture someone else. When you nurture someone else it has a way of nurturing yourself. I want someone to take care of, so I can want to take care of myself. The people and the cars still pass by, but this time with their headlights on and more glances to the wet ground. The other patrons in here are mainly by themselves as well except for two annoying girls laughing and giggling away. I think I’ll move shop over to the starbucks despite my two-dollar large coffee. I don’t feel sad. I don’t feel happy. I don’t feel.