Crows Rarely Laugh

The fever has subsided, along with the grinding of teeth. I head to the kitchen to begin the daily bustle of life and turn on the stove. I make coffee and pour the brewed coffee into a beautiful yellow cup. I go to my room. I open the window and grab the pen from the hand of fate. I want to write the rest of my story using a different handwriting. Maybe my handwriting isn't elegant. It's more readable than the crab-frog handwriting that fate wrote for me. The smell of wet soil and rain permeates the room. I sit on my usual wooden chair. The scent of rain and coffee is an elixir. It freshens my soul. I am still alive and still breathing. I sip my coffee slowly. This turn has a fresh, strange, and rich taste—a great flavor of a new beginning.