tales from an ordinary world

2003-05-27

It's always five minutes to midnight in the Bluestone - a desperate hour, perhaps - clutching at the last minutes of a dying day, hoping to turn it into something memorable. Or is it five minutes to midday ? Ceiling fans whirl lazily, pretending they're somewhere warm. Soft light and dark wood abound. The music rarely fits but it's only a background hum, masked by morning conversations and brass fittings. Coming here less often makes it seem more like home.