Cups of Brown

A fresh cup of steaming brown was nestled in my hand. Aside from that, I positively decided, at that moment, that things, as they were, weren't as I necessarily wanted them to be. World politics swirled clockwise in my unsweetened cup; thanks in no small part to a silver spoon that may or may not have been in a newborn's mouth. Theories and ideals wobbled as I brought the cup towards my chapped lips and tilted my hand, which also, by rights, tilted the cup that was in it, eventually leading to a slope of brown that slid onto my tongue and was promptly swallowed. The history of personkind found refuge in my inner bits and infused me with contempt.

My next utterance resembled a gurgle, and would have, if deciphered, caused an open-minded soul to think about things, and perhaps even act upon things. Instead I was left with the remaining two-thirds of steaming brown which, in my hands, were destined for greatness; the greatness of my belly.