Jack glanced down at the scrawled poem on his napkin, then looked up at his friends across the cluttered café table. The hum of the espresso machine and the low chatter of afternoon patrons filled the warm, bean-scented air.
“Don’t you think too many poets are overly obsessed with Foucault or Sartre?” Jack asked, tossing his pen onto the table with a dull clatter.
Shu snickered, leaning back in his chair as a sly grin spread across his face. “I see that you’re playing a ‘complaining game,’” he said, adjusting his glasses. “I know how that game works, Jack, and it’s ultimately empty. Whenever people get locked into any rigid game-set, they lose all freshness, vitality, and life. Tell me, how do you think playing this game is actually helping you or anyone else?”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Shucks!” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to draw a brief glance from the barista. “Who said I need help? Besides, what kind of game are you playing? The guru game? Spare me!”
Ella released a long, quiet sigh, carefully setting down her ceramic mug as the steam drifted lazily between them.
“Sometimes,” she murmured, staring thoughtfully into the dark liquid, “it seems like we’re all stuck playing five-dimensional games without even realizing it in our limited three-dimensional spaces.”
