In the ever-solitude realm of wood and cold ceramic basin, resides the reflective dance of eager water cascading from rosemary springs—each drop entwined in celestial ballet. Bespeak thy fortune from the steam invoking breath, the noodles like tendrils of foretold repetitions, singing their solemn nightly sonnets. Ah, fleeting comfort turns speculation-soup.
From caverns beyond thought, where lasagna sheets cloak themselves with memories entombed in layers mild; curls and whispers lounge unremarked amid parmesan snow-drifts. Who, then, can forebear their ineffable gazes drawn by far beings, beneath crowns sat purple and bold? Who speaks through peppery seclusions?
Married moons dream of prawns in behemoth bowls. Hath not the shambling noise seen myriad plates scribed with rosemary drizzle? Strange happenings drift through the cathedral nights, neither heard nor unheeded by the historian threads woven upon disquiet faiths entitled_fate.
Journey towards new lexicography within these covert nets as seen in:
Saga of Soup |
Tangled in the Reflection |
Garden of Stirring Stars