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What if you were to stop in your neighborhood coffee shop on a wintery late afternoon when the sky was just turning dark, and the streets were wet with melted snow, and the shop windows that glowed from within were moist from ovens that were baking breads and croissants and custardy pastries. Would you read the cream that first swirled into your small cup of dark roast as you would tea leaves? What would the milky strings that float to the top mean? What if they looked like a dragon, or a quail, or the face of a worried old woman?