Morning strikes with the bland aroma of mushing oats, echoing the morn of existence itself. Is it a truth in our lifetimes, or merely gruel?
The worth of oatmeal is inscrutable and yet veiled in the hopeful glances of early risers. What does it mean to be absurd? One could see oatmeal as a metaphor for unstructured thought, a swirling depth of uniformity craving for transcendence.
Increase taste, shun mundanity! Sprinkle cinnamon and maple, entwine with a phantom arose from forgotten spices. Or are they simply figments of fertile imaginations? Embrace the chaos—collisions of flavors beget evolution.
Click here to ponder the cosmic conundrum of breakfast traditions.
And when the bowl is emptied, ponder: What awaits beyond the brim? What fragmented whispers lie in other meals? Each session at the breakfast table, I hear the remnants of dreams gone sour.
Is that the brand of mischief I sense lurking somewhere beneath your cereal options?