Bitterness. Because I had no pictures to go with this text.
That is why you don't succeed as a blogger; you never remember to take the worthwhile pictures.
And then, brightening-up: Are the pictures necessary?
Are they necessary to describe the odor of a habit of coffee, stale (mildly flowery) and accommodated into the place, but welcoming and familiar? Most certainly not.
Would they be enough to encompass the turbulent accumulation of books, mildly turbulent in subject-matter, exceedingly so in array, towering over everyone and everything and covering all available space? Absolutely not.
Could they purport to describe the labyrinthine ambiance of a 2x4 room drowning in papers forgotten, pictures incoherent, posters and letters confused and displaced? Of course, no.
And yet the friendliness of this chaos, of this crazy yet intellectual chaos, that is beyond a still-frame also. In spite of one's occasional preoccupation regarding rats, regarding mold, regarding how easily things are lost in such a place, one is welcome, there are enough chairs, there are enough cups of coffee and tea, occasionally there is cheese or grapes, one sits down and has a laugh and perhaps thinks a philosophical thought or two, one occasionally works, but it has become home, a frightening home, yes, a dauntingly messy one, yes, but one grows to love it and admire a person that can function in a room that aspires so dignifiedly to be an Aleph.