(no subject)
Tonight, I saw a cup of chicken noodle soup wildly spilled across a deserted parkway that was 90% street-lit and 10% moon-lit. Picture: doughy limbs of noodles sprawled, supine in watery light. Avant-garde strokes of carrots and celery exploding silently, frozen against luminous asphalt. Splattered supernova, poultry (poetry?) in stopped motion.
The last 36 hours have shattered my conception of humanity, and all I can write about is someone else's soup, undrunk.
No cliches tonight. My heart is the bursting chicken, robbed of claw and bone, diced geometrically, brined callously, souped into a warm bath of tenderness, then flung abruptly into an asphalt sea. I can't function right now, much less blog. Too much emotional broth.
In another 36 hours, this story will be over.
The last 36 hours have shattered my conception of humanity, and all I can write about is someone else's soup, undrunk.
No cliches tonight. My heart is the bursting chicken, robbed of claw and bone, diced geometrically, brined callously, souped into a warm bath of tenderness, then flung abruptly into an asphalt sea. I can't function right now, much less blog. Too much emotional broth.
In another 36 hours, this story will be over.