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with things unsaid

Absurdity sneaks into my nostrils and seeps into this wrought brain as a ghostly, unthinking byproduct of boiled salted water and stale spaghetti pasta (which was bought in bulk some time ago).


The transfigured molecules of hydrogen and oxygen ascend like spirits from the steel pot on the kitchen stove, rising innately upwards into the atoms of the gypsum ceiling.


And I stand, a god of fire and water, in this dimming-into-darkness kitchen, throbbing with things unsaid.

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