I stared at the notebook, with all of its half thoughts scratched this way and that upon the page.
The column of text before me felt oddly confrontational, as if my own words were daring me to disagree with them. The more I read and reread them, the less convinced I was that they were actually mine.
While attempting to reconcile the part about grand statements with the nature of the manifesto as a grand statement itself, I took a mouthful of burnt coffee from the dull white ceramic cup in my hand. The only reason I frequented this café was because it still served coffee in a cup and saucer, which no matter how stained or aged was infinitely preferable to a mug.
I detested mugs.
Speeches. I would change statements to speeches. That would deter me from any tendencies to monologue. Judging by the almost full notebook on the table, that was likely a good thing.
While taking another sip of coffee, I reached for my pen to amend the document. In a moment of uncoordination, I dropped it.
Onto the ceiling.