My desk is splotched with coffee-stains, and my coffee is marked with tears. Crying at your desk is natural when the world slips away. Worse than its slipping away is its coming too close and forcing you to care. When you are forced to care, you notice the little things—coffee splotched on writing desks. You notice each individual ring from the cups of past words, the howling of the dog at cars at dawn. You notice the similarities between the tassel on a fez and the hair on a horse, and you see your future in a German beer coaster. The shoes in the trashcan remind you of memories of past lives. You remember dancing in her living room and you remember staring into her eyes, you remember lying on her bed and reading with her, you remember the desperate noise she makes when she cries and the beautiful silence she makes when she smiles. You remember all at once and it becomes too much, so you retreat into your brew and take a deep breath. You focus on the fingertips pressed to your forehead. You want to care, but sometimes caring is too much. You remember the contours of her face as you set down Gatsby and watch her lost in the maze of imagination and how you pined to kiss her, and at last you remember the taste of coffee on her breath. You remember, and this is enough. If you care long enough and hard enough about one thing, maybe caring about everything at once won’t be so bad.