It had all started with a few curious stains immediately to the left of my keyboard. Dark and strangely linear in pattern, they caught my eye one Wednesday morning when I went to set down my mug after returning from a water and bathroom break. Normally, a landscape of ochre swirls located in the relative vicinity of my left elbow betrayed their designers' rather intimate attachment to coffee, but on that day my mug was filled with nothing more than good old fashioned H20. I had been catching increasingly sudden migraines at the time, and just that weekend had made the fatal decision to wean myself from America's favorite beverage before it became - like most things American - too engrossing to be healthy. Thus, you can imagine my surprise when, upon returning to my desk, I should (like a withdrawn crack addict) apparently hallucinate a mirage of my so recently divorced mistress - the same one who in times past had so persistently threatened to become my master. From what I could see as I stood behind my swiveling chair, these unknown markings were still wet. Fresh. Glistening, even. I set my mug on the unaccustomed right, and bent over to examine my desk. Blue. Shiny, beaded droplets. Opaque. It was ink.