Take One. I'm pounding like a madman at my keyboard, my cappuccino now cold as the December chill blowing in through the half- open door of my favorite Cafe ( Cafe Trieste, in Oakland if you must know) and the soft murmur of daily life providing all the background music I need. Solitude, I'm finding is a dish best served with an accompanying soundtrack of other people. I'm good at blocking out other people: just ask my wife. There's a table full of older women, fresh from their morning workout, next to me. They're loudly debating the upcoming Trump Presidency and comparing iPhone photos of their grandchildren. In a few minutes, a couple of regular characters will make their daily entrance: the wild-eyed Asian guy of an indeterminable age who likes to sing along loudly to whatever's playing on his headphones, and the homeless dude who's debating fiercely with whatever noises he's hearing in his own head. It all passes by me like a burbling stream.