They can’t calm down.
They can’t ever stop howling.
Samuel Beckett goes up to the counter and orders a water, then goes to sit and wait. After what feels like an eternity, but is in reality only two acts, the barista calls his name and hands him an empty cup.
Hemingway goes up to the counter and orders one espresso. It’s hot. He drinks it in silence. It makes him remember his father’s cabin. He thinks about the woman he loved once. He does not smile. The coffee reminds him of war - short but painful, swallowed down quickly. One could order worse drinks. He leaves Starbucks and walks out into the rain.