It’s nothing grand, nothing glamorous. Lost amid the city beetles continuously scuttling, sleepless it lounges unruffled by obligations, a place where old friends embrace to gather lost ends of stories departed; where new friends giggle over steaming cups about the frothy matters of life that are but a spec on the city’s sole. It’s nothing of consequence to the world that swirls outside of its paned eyes, those people sidling down comfortably into couches, casually reading about the world of war, of famine, of poverty, of absolute correctness that is nothing to no one, though everything to everyone, but something we want to escape from…if only for one moment. From time’s whirlwind. Here aroms of spices and music dance, flirtatiously floating from table to table like the smoke rings outside that weave until they become ethereal in daylight’s shine. Here we snuggle up from winter’s harsh words where comfort trumps worries and one can find solitude form the world’s dizzying spin.