And because I thrive on incoherence, I will make an omelette today. The chopped onions and tomatoes should go well with last night's rain, and the eggs should serve the morning right.
Pepper, as signifier, I have yet to mull over.
A bird is chirping from nearby. How near, I cannot tell. My head is full of Derrida and Bradbury. Men are part monsters, part-- I forget what he (Bradbury) said our halves are. I am swimming in theory; there's never enough movement for what's actual.
Love calls for our vulnerability, and not all of us are willing to be so naked.
I refuse to be vulnerable. Stay away.
But what to make of this sudden namelessness, this all-consuming mediocrity, spreading out into this otherwise glorious sunshine?
*getting up to make that omelette*
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