...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AA
morning, was seemingly these primal instincts
weaving a web around habits that seemed to have
captured my being—into a hermetic life within a
room primarily consisting of an African sun light
shining dusty particles through a light peach
curtain, a toilet with a sink where the water
splutters as if choking... Regardless of my
surroundings, which I didn’t totally disregard or
regard, at least the possibility of trying to recreate
the making of those eggs still existed—As
harrowing as Lucia’s story had been, in the grand
scheme of life it was, just another notch on a
bedpost enamoured with endless stories of
molestations, revenges, corruptions, stupidities
and more—The lives of those in an average squat
(that I had witnessed first-hand) could detail the
dark mystery of at least twenty complete normal
lives (normal being what can only be referred to
those in the distilled furnace of an autonomous
nothing).— These ideas provided a recoil within
me, to an extent, and I then tried, cooking the
eggs exactly as I had the previous evening, being
sure to do exactly as I had done: using the same
bowl, same amount of eggs: three, the same
amount of oil in the frying pan: two tablespoons,
two knobs of butter within the eggs, a splash of
milk, a pinch of salt and lastly an onion. I did this
being careful to consider all the elements of the
ingredients, but I couldn’t remember how long I
had fried the eggs after I had poured the contents
into the frying pan. I thought this is why I failed, I
hoped. Adding, significantly, that I was there
cooking alone in the apartment, without Lucia
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