A misty evening, with a cup of red tea, wooden libraries, and an atmosphere of warm fire like the old, creaking elevator, or the streetlamp, only trying through the torrent of bitter snow. Much like the tea we drink, strong, almost bitter, never with milk, but its how we like it. I remove the teabag, casually, but you scorn. Could it not be used another time? No need, I retort for our tea is plentif ...