stirred with high heat below, the spatula scraping and turning vegetables meat fish and sauces into each other, friends, couples, families and the occasional loner like me, times when we bend over the food and say nothing or fuck for the thousandth time, marveling swooning that tastes textures like these exist on styrofoam plates for $10.00, smears of oil, chilis, dried little fish and spice, a crunch and savage raw flavor of some place I ought to call home on a Monday evening like this.
birch and grasses alone on the snow, grey sky indistinguishable. the flat
world falls into the edge of time, lifeless, dull wedge of horizon and
soundless ...
No comments:
Post a Comment