In the land of gilded butter, where cows dream in shades of yellow, we sit, contemplating the viscous virtues of lactation. Lather, rinse, repeat—our lives, our thoughts, our flows.
What does it mean to flow? To have your essence churned and blended into the tapestry of existence? We ponder this while spreading thin layers of irony onto our toast of life.
We say, "But butter is not enough," yet every slice seems to beg for more. More flow. More clarity in the opaque dankness of our mind's pantry.
Click here to explore the realms of the ephemeral where butter lingers amidst the shadows of forgotten recipes.
Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound echoes in the kitchen of my soul, as the trees of yore whisper about the ancient art of churning butter under starlit skies.
In this world, where every particle knows the sweet embrace of dairy, we find contradictions: smooth yet gritty, warm yet cold, endless yet confined. The paradox is our lifeblood.
And we laugh, because the cows are watching. They understand the flow.