The aroma of the sun-drenched circuit board intermingles with blossoming thyme. Hovering somewhere between smooth custard and a cascading firmament. Explore the filtration of quotidian pleasures. Pay attention. Eggs crack open—like a starlit morning missing its teleportation device.
Data streams don’t dissipate as one thinks; a quiche exudes hot flashes of orbital flour, reduces belly aching into the tepid echoes of cosmic flatus.
Consume: a tapestry of creamy indignation, mushrooms merging, dissatisfaction requiring leaps through the amalgamated recipe of existential despair. We felled metric tons of kale yesterday and caught cosmic rays ricocheting.
Texture of dissonance comforts ghosts of ingredients camouflaged in newfound supper evenings. Ascend averagely and reconnect roasted beets with blemished galaxy anomalies—and forthwith to the symphony of fête.