Coffee shops have been my refuge, offering a solitary crib in its nook and cranny as I either transfix into my current bibliotherapy - the oftentimes funny but mostly poignant memoirs of gay men that came before me - or eavesdrop on the melodrama of its patron's predicament on work, love or whatever consumes them at the moment. Sometimes it turns out to be a fresh form of entertainment. Different personalities and discourses lingering through the ambient interiors and symphonious acoustics almost make up for the humdrum of my "plus-one"-less coffee table situation. These places are silent witnesses of the kaleidescope unfolding of colorful caricatures of the cosmopolitan. It gives me a kindred sense of belongingness no matter how seemingly detached I am with human connection.