The city—a maze of steel and unspoken ambition, its sky bruised and hanging low. Skyscrapers loom like silent watchers of the ambition below. I stroll down 7th Avenue, dark bags under my eyes, as cars blare their horns, creating a chaotic scene of noise that my mind fixated on more than most days. The smog is visible, I can almost taste it. I love it anyway. It’s probably cliche; it is, but these streets harbor secrets.
Every morning, I make my way to my favorite coffee shop, Espresso Yourself. I can’t decide if I find the name clever, dumb, or ridiculous, but it might be the ridiculousness that I find clever. I might think their name is silly, but their coffee is undeniably excellent. The place is a hidden gem—a coffee shop and bookstore rolled into one, although the bookstore aspect feels more like an aesthetic than practical. And I’m okay with that.
If I’m honest though, the real reason I praise this place? I romanticize it. And I see nothing wrong with that. They also have a cute …
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