You enjoy drinking foamy lattes in back-corner cafes because it makes you look like a scholar, a God among writers, a profound person, though you know that no truly deep person would have the consciousness to tie a stiff knot in the black tie that hangs against your starched shirt, black on white, a hangman's noose silhouetted against a gray, indifferent sky that stares down upon the street outside your detached café. On that street a woman walks, her mousy brown hair reminding you of the mice that at this very moment are being forced from their lairs in the depths of your apartment walls, the green gas filling their lungs, making their little ratty limbs twitch with the pangs of execution. You wonder if the serial killer executed last month twitched like those rats.
Another sip of latte and you wipe away a moustache of tasty foam like you wiped away the sea spray from your jacket when you went walking on the beach last Monday, not because you wanted to, but because you didn't want to. You don't suppose those mice wanted to die, either, swallowing that gas just because it was there.
Just like you filled out the job application on the table. Crisp white paper now crossed by two deep folds from where you folded it and stuck it in the back pocket of your jeans, hoping that you never saw it again and yet drawn to it by some invisible force that makes your hand twitch toward you pocket as if you, too, were sucking in green gas. Finally, you couldn't help it and you filled it out, just because it was there. And you take another gulp of latte, just because it is there. After all, you don't like lattes.