Somewhere between the whisper of 2 AM and the shrill hum of an impatient microwave, another batch of pancakes rises, sizzles, the sound resembling distant thunder.
"Why do I eat at this hour?" I ask digits from an anonymous watch face. Nearby, eggs lie strewn on the counter like forgotten remembrances of brunch dreams.
Heavy syrup curtains coated with insomnia flare against light colored pancakes; they morph into grim silhouettes dissolved in wealth of gold. The cycle of consumption manifests— a ritual bleeding into the shadows of danger.
Flipping layers, stacking burdens, knee-deep in syrupy thoughts.
Sometimes I add a hint of cinnamon not for luxury, but for a fleeting echo of childhood tunes escaping old vinyl records.
And there lies the oddity in daylight's chaotic aftermath.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Yet, if I blink, everything dissolves like powdered sugar standout in the twilight.
So I close my eyes, to shield from empty thoughts, and let the candle flames swing, reflecting poorly on another dimension.
Tomorrow? A perpetual hangover mixed with flour shields disguised in daylight.
Get lost in layers— the exaltation of a smile by clicking here.
Or talk about invisible maple trees, another deserted slice of matter over there.