On a chipped balcony above traffic’s tide,
he stands — crumpled shirt, steel tumbler warm.
The city stretches with synthetic yawns,
but he sips… slow.

Behind him, the day queues up:
Slack pings, Grok, Gemini and GPTs waiting,
WhatsApp groups lighting up
like a digital sunrise.
Deadlines scroll themselves into existence.

But between cup and lip —
there’s sanctuary.

Steam rises like a coded prayer,
and for one sacred breath,
he is logged out of the world
and logged into himself.

No agenda,
no pitch deck,
just presence.

This is his Caffendrum —
where silence is stirred,
not summoned.
Where even Maya waits for the next notification.