Art liked coffee. That he loved coffee was closer to the truth, even lusted after, but those words didn’t suit his under-exaggerated style of speaking. He liked it.
Of course, complete honesty would require him to say he was addicted to coffee, but it was that kind of reality he drank coffee to ignore. To speak of addiction seemed somehow clinical, not really reflecting the relationship he had cultivated with the cup. He preferred to say he looked at the world through a coffee-cupped lens.
The effects of his coffee drinking went in a discernable cycle.