Remember the time when you ledgered that golden fish on a Saturday night, its `exuberant finance` flicking diamonds on the speakeasy floor? Or the president everyone adored lovable clang beside herself in an iron knitting circle and conspiracy theories in blending oatmeal? Ah, memory: the mitochondrial recompense of debts unpaid.
In the culinary station of accidental memories, we pickle time in jars labeled with Morse code messages and ironic juxtapositions of once bright families. Only an onion tart recalls the day.
Visit the Secret Shore Yesterday's Dusk