A clock called salt
You sit over a spicy meal. A richly cooked dried fish composite with the hottest chilies and the onions, the garlic, oil –just like a pickle would look from the exterior vision. It will make every mouth watery. The look.
The beggar and his dog sit straight. The beggar has had his night meal. A glass of tea and a loaf of bread. His eyes are blue like I have never witnessed.
The rice is hot to the extent you can see the dancing of the water from inside rising above to touch the walls of the wall which gets conducted upwards to make the floor above a tad unmeasurably slippery. You slowly take a bit from the composite and start the process called mixing. Mixing here is non-homogenous. Still you try to make it one. You close your eyes and offer it to the clown who makes you laugh always. You put the first gulp to your mouth. It tastes lowly.
The clock turns a minute. The legs of a beautiful woman get thrown at your interface. You take the second gulp. It sounds lowly.
The cuts at the bed of an ocean gets seen. A bit drab. Cloudy though electric with a low frequency.Greyish. The bubbles somewhat white and the rest muddy. Not like the view of a pond with raw trees emerging out of it. Clean. Also unlike an usual city pond with plastic bags and bottles. Not green. Quite divergent. It will not give you a sense of the boundary. You might put a sexy pair of Polaroid glasses to change the hue to the green. But they are somewhat discrete if not different. Aren’t they?
A branch like matter curls down to touch the surface of the pond and makes it wiggle.
Your tongue is hungry. Hungry over an after taste like an after image which makes every artist wonder. The sky now is burgandish. Like the tad darker version of a pink raddish. Though you get a sense of the black screen behind. The absolute.
You add something which the chemist calls salt. The cook too with a discrete purpose. Again mix it to make it one. You put the third gulp. You finish the race. The clock turns 2 minutes.
The beggar sleeps. The ocean and the pond becomes one. Was it the salt? Was it the clock? Was it the clock called salt.
The drone takes a flight from the interface to the infinity. Everything small. The ripples homogenize. The particles become singular. The wind becomes vacuum. The peak of the mountain just white and the green and red forest becomes white too. You can feel the discreteness that makes the continuum.
Mother do you fantasize moments? Like Me.