Floating thoughts simmer in the pot, onion clouds and rosemary sprigs. The moon's fork, its knife a sleek reflection on the waves. Last night's lanterns flicker in yesterday's mind, swirling like forgotten soup recipes, discarded with the ebbing tide of the sea's ledger.
Do we eat letters, pondering languidly? The alphabet banquet, where A's are appetizers and Z's desserts. Here, amidst the table's creaking voice, scripts the ocean, a scribe in constant flux, shifting grains for ink.
Dinnertime arrives unannounced, like a breeze brushing through an open window. It's neither late nor early, no clock to mark the passage, just the sound of utensils clinking against porcelain heavens. An invitation to speak with borrowed tongues.
Waves of conversation spill over, ripples of laughter imprinted in the fabric of the evening. Words dance, partners for a night, then part ways with the tide. Silence sits down, content with its untouched plate.