There are certain places that just seem to foster some sort of insane brilliance. People talk about Vienna and Paris being hotbeds of artistic inspiration. Fine caf�s and bistros all lined up nice and equal, gleaming storefronts beckoning wine-toting French artiste types to come and practice their art inside. To drink all day for the muse. Go and look at fine marble sculptures.

Paint where Picasso did. Compose your music where Verdi did. Drink where Hemingway did. Drive into the tree Camus did.

You know what? Hell to that. Screw Europe. I've got Denny's.

Denny's--especially when it's a scummy, 24-hour type one that serves its coffee in barely-clean mugs--is a virtual hotbed of beautiful creativity. In the most proletarian way possible, of course--none of that bourgeoise Starbucks riff raff! This place gives you UNLIMITED COFFEE. RAAAH! So, yes. 7 cups are inside of me. Waring for bodily domination, and all that.

Unfortunately, I seem unable to chronicle the full brilliance of tonight. Rest assured, however, that a poem was sufficiently over-analyzed for an IB class, and VK and I got it done in record time. I was right--had we done it at my house, we would have got distracted. Immediately. But Denny's, in its infinite coffee and wisdom, had us focusing and finding things in the poem that we never would have without such ungodly levels of caffiene.

Also, rest assured that the poem "Ode to the West Wind" is not riddled with irony like so much Romanovs with bullets from Bolsheviks.

But that's one I tell for myself, baby.

Update later tonight, perhaps. But probably not. Caffiene makes me fickle.