Recipe for Soup II

The final hours, the complicated ones, those which corrode the sense of who we might be; who tell us who we are, for better or worse. Each tick of the clock sends shivers down the spine. And as they eyelids grow more and more heavy, the air thickens like a dense soup. One drop of which could knock a man out in seconds. Falling to the floor as though he were made of metal and the world was a tremendous magnet. Having the time to do what we want is a luxury. Having work to do, whether it’s sorting out paperwork, clearing a space for dinner or writing letters to people who have disappeared from view, is a necessity. The wine bottle was filled with dead flies. The clock counted the number of times he thought about her. Plans were made for the escape. The mind was set to the task. An open landscape, the sky a beautiful gradient of cerulean blue into salmon pink. An expansive desert with jagged rocks protruding in what look like deliberate patterns. And a swarm of spheres oscillating above them. The air resonates with a symphony dedicated to morning, noon and night. The sounds disappear when the mind is aware of them, then quickly they snap back once it treats them as a part of the great play. The sand is a brilliant white, made purple by the mixture of colours in the azure. The hours do not carve their certainty here. The mantle of knowledge has no place in the zone of emptiness. That it exists is uncertain. Though the mind is tired, it treads confidently upon the pulverized sand made of ancient sea shells. Small grains of sand, whipped up a faint breeze, a thought, a panic, fizz against the rough shafts of the rock. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The pan boils; as each bubble explodes, small droplets of the soup fall into the vortex. The pen nib snaps. Ink sprays across the page. The smell of old meat, fresh flowers and blind panic fill the nostrils. With the blunt end of the pen, pouring with oily, black liquid, he writes:


mouthwash – paracetamol – smoothie”


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