A cup of steaming Milo in front of me, rest it's bottom on the upper platform just over the keyboard. Waving conspicuously its smoke, like a stranger puffing fumes from his cigar, playful and inviting, like smooth waves from the brush of a confused artist, just playing her strokes with no distinct direction, just stroking until the brush dries out its ink. Like this cup of Milo, cooling down for there are no smokes coming out from its muddy surface anymore. The absence of warmth filled the cup, i guess I'll be drinking a used-to-be steaming now cold as water MILO. 
Yes it's cold, but the sweet taste would always linger on the buds of my tongue until I'll be drinking a glass of water to slide away its sweet residues.
Yes it's cold, but the sweet taste would always linger on the buds of my tongue until I'll be drinking a glass of water to slide away its sweet residues.Cold Milo. Cold water. Good morning.
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