I would like someone to write me a love song that rhymes “baby” with “trajectory”.
A few days ago, some people between two to three feet high travelled through my room in an escape from the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Alas! Quite a number turned to look behind them, as expressly forbidden by God, and promptly turned into pillars of clothes. And that, friends, is why my room looks like this.
It was there for a moment, I’d swear it: a perfect face formed for less than a second by the vegetables in my soup. An unrepeatable event, a slip of the tongue, a too obvious message from the guardians of metaphor.
It’s only defense mechanisms that have us seeing faces in facelessness.
Soup is soup is soup.