There is jazz up here and orange light. There is leather distressed wood faces lit by blue white strained coffee grinding, pouring, steaming and below, screaming a black voice in slurred percussion, low and rough broken gritty invading our still our hands clench around coffee cups some broad men perk up and incline toward heroism. But it is quiet. The disruption ushered out and the students of the city relax on their Kant, Foucault, because there is no insanity here but one man dirtied by streets. There is coffee without agitation orange light blue light And jazz.