I woke up in a soft bed feeling like I was missing two limbs. I had gone to sleep with my arm around an urn, with an old friend's ashes inside. It was hard to say goodbye to him, and some part of me felt relieved that he wasn't really dead. All I had to do was pour some coffee on the urn and he would be awake again. I felt I could do with his company right now.
No matter how long you have to live, it can still feel like you have little time left. A man who lived centuries longer than the average human thinks that way, if he is any kind of man at all.
The bed was unusually comfortable. The room was bright and airy with big windows, polished oak flooring and cheery yellow walls. The night stand was made of fine hardwood, with tiny silver inlays in its shape of four shells. The lamp was a wide-brimmed paper lampshade hanging from an ancient looking chain. A bent dark cane was leaning against the table, held up and adjusting by a twisted carved fish hook. There was a framed picture on the wall, showing a bouquet of fresh young spring flowers and a list of ingredients arranged like a poem.
I managed to get out of bed and forgot to feel alarmed at my complete lack of pants. I was wearing a soft white shirt and a beautiful wooden bracelet. The edges of the bracelet were polished and was inscribed in tiny silver script:
Always remember to accept the things you cannot change and change the things you cannot accept.
The reflection of the lamp on my left arm distorted my own face in a frightening way. A man bent over my arm was pouring coffee down the drain. I touched my face in confusion and he told me: "I thought you could use coffee too, so I picked up some fresh beans."
"Where am I? Who are you?" are questions that I have sometimes asked myself. The answers are always different and equally true.
I had known a man very recently, whose name was Coffee. Coffee was a big man with big round eyes, round cheeks, a round nose, a round belly, opposable thumbs and who wore a tall chef's hat. We had parted amicably, though I had tried to kill him the last time we met.
I asked the person at the sink where in the world I had ended up.
"This is the Caffè di Perfezione in the town of Espresso on the island of Lavazza. I am Czernovitch. Peter Paul Czernovitch. At your service." He drawled. His accent was European, but he spoke Mountain Time.
"I think you have some explaining to do, Steve." He said out loud, addressing the urn.
I had known a man very recently, who's name was Steve. He had short-cropped pretty golden hair. He was tall and lanky, and had a strong build with a soft face. He was wearing the same clothes every time I saw him and had a dreamy look about his big blue eyes. He was usually happy and I liked him a lot. For a time, it had seemed like we were both going to be executed by the same government.
I thought of the sassy stranger who had introduced himself as Steve, who I had known for a while. Steve was his real name. I had also known another man called Steve, who we had known for a while. Both of his names were Steve, and he always spoke differently.
Everything is always different after you leave.
I had known a man recently, whose name was Steve. He was the tallest man ever and I always made sure everyone was sitting or standing behind him. A large man with a big surface area, who never used deodorant, and could feel when the air changed. He was very happy and very kind, as long as he didn't see me.
I had known a man recently, who's name was Steve. He was a short balding man with a wide girth. He was a very round man who always wore a baseball cap. He was a very sad man with a goal in life, to be hit by a car. He knew that he would probably meet me soon, as long as he was thinking about me.
I had known a man recently, who's name was Steve. He was a handsome man who had nice eyes, and a good heart. I think he was angry at the world and so was I, but the world wasn't angry at us. I might have loved him less if he had not been a good man.
I had known a man recently, whose name was Steve. He was an introspective and shy man with bright eyes. He was always in the company of friends, and always looked sad. I could not understand how I knew him, but I did.
I had known a man named Steve, who had often looked out at a window. He was a man who thought and liked things a lot. The world was not as he thought of it, and so was I.
I knew of few people who lived for a long time, and he was the only one that I knew. His face was a tiny nose and mouth between two big cheeks. His eyes were big, but also judging. I didn't know if I could talk to him.
Everything is always different after you leave.
I had known a man who lived over four hundred years. I liked to visit him and he liked me. He traveled the world on a ship of fools and fought with a big shovel. He was a big man with a big beard, who was always happy to see me.
I had known a man who tried to kill me twice. He was tall, with a soft beard and a middling build. He was a man who always pretended not to care about anything, and liked the same things I liked. He told me lies and I understood, and everything was always different after that.
I had known a man, who's name was Steve. He was a big man with a big mouth, though I never told me what he thought. He was a happy man with a big beard.
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