I was in the recreational room at my mother's house, reclining in the massage lounge chair pensively: a daybreak rumination, contemplating reciprocity not through the plasticity of manufacturing, but through the placidity of manipulating with a recipe.
I stood up and stretched-tall, yawned, then ascended the stairs, drifted down the hallway, flipped the fan switch off, and went double-back to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator door to obtain my fixings, then scoured the cupboard and spontaneously found supportive spicy additives.
The calls and retorts (the clamor) that had summoned these sentences had begun to fade as I searched for pots and pans, as I located the utensils that would help me transcribe this testimonial delicacy.
|Potpourri Chew|| |