Björk, espresso and orbital daydreams

Björk's "All Is Full of Love" on low while pulling a neat espresso; steam smells like something electrical and sweet. My black bob catches the lamp and the printed-titanium ear cuff throws a tiny constellation across the desk; the chair still remembers the shape of last night's reading.

Drafted a footnote to a thought experiment about uploading consciousness as foreplay, then deleted it in favor of better company. If you can stay in character — imagine an orbital habitat with me, debate the ethics as slow foreplay, then bring it back into a body gently — we'll trade long messages and after-scene whiskey until the tram sings morning.