It was a a kind that doesn't exist anymore, bright and empty at 4am a bare wood landing composed the second floor, was wreathed in smoke, filled with destroyed couches and some sculpture grad-student's thesis, 4 sets of gray plate steel tables and chairs designed in the brutalist tradition, a matching spiral staircase connected it to the ground level and cold stares from the bearded help where you exploited the never ending cup not because of taste, or ethical trademarks, but because caffeine gave you the jitters, and a window that that made a wall and loomed over everything and that took on an impressionist air when dew dripped and streaked the city sweating outside.