The cafe sat hibernating in the far right of the city, its homey aroma, draws her soul into its cocoon for a few blessed moments. The honeyed hues brings sweetness to the day, coaxing a smile to her face that warms within. She finds herself perched at a table, a rich deep brown holding a dark aromatic perfume. Placing a sketchbook upon the surface, the paper sits there with patience for it knows art comes upon its own schedule. Sooner or later, her artistry begins to pour from the tip of the fine brush she so tenderly holds, her heart singing with the soft rhythm that comes from the gentle stroke upon the slip of paper. She soaks into the passing time as if it were a warm and fragrant bubble bath; the hour moved in its own tempo leaving herself staring at her own beauty for an inadequate moment. A novel stands beneath the paint, no words visible though she reads so many upon the palette of rising hopes. It speaks to her in a foundational language only she can distinguish, for the story is her own. A societal medicine that reminds her of the many reasons in why we become so drawn to art.
