In an alternate universe, coffee brews at the hour of the dead. Grounds steeped in creases and narratives, with skeletons taking long, pensive sips amidst vapor trails of lost dreams.
What do the bitter aromas whisper while the static noise dances on kitchen surfaces? Every cup is a summon, a glitch in the transmission of the soul.
Potential customers line the highway of obtuse humor: "Do you take yours with a splash of ethereal angst?" they inquire nonchalantly.
If espresso speaks, hear ye: a ritual that transcends time, each brew a concoction quirkier than the last. Do the deceased grumble about bad baristas in afterlife cafés?
This establishment doesn’t simply serve coffee; it serves the artifact of existence itself. My heart skips: Blast from the past or Existential brew? Choices are but reflections unending.