To cure the soul by means of the senses

Perfect weather follows a perfect storm. The flood has subsided. Moisture clings not to the skin but to the ground. All is cleansed, calmed, quieted, conquered by water; even the sun. The air is cool and invigorating. A draught caresses the forearms. A wintry tune tinkles in the ears. The road is clear.

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A mug of mocha art may not say very much, but its warmth gloves the hands. As the vessel tilts to and fro, the brown tide drifts in obedience. Flow: the liquid spreads, bittersweet swirls flourish on its surface, multiplying like curly vines, before the molten mass crashes snug on the tongue. Ebb: the waters recede hastily, the gnarled figures are erased, the warmth grows mild.