...a deathly serenade...

and her catastrophe, and this specifically halted
the process and the taste— highlighting the
consideration that any given moment was so
excessively nuanced; the very nature of life’s
events can take on a completely different hue
with only a small alteration to them. Though, in
fact, I think it was the amount of oil, I held
hunched over the small table. I just couldn’t taste
the eggs like I did the previous night. It was
unnerving that I couldn’t gain purchase on
perfectly recreating the atmosphere or feeling—
sure it may seem obnoxious to you, but let me
explain somewhat: to lose a sense is a monstrous
affliction, it really is a tragic disability to have to
endure—it is a form of anosmia, I may say,
though I could still smell somewhat, strangely;
whenever anything was transferred into my
mouth I couldn’t fully perceive it and the echoes
of this not being so were strikingly loud in the
blood silence of the room as the morning moved
into the afternoon.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Simmering From a Series of Memory
I arrived to meet B around 2 in the afternoon,
still simmering from Lucia and memories of
those eggs. He knew her too, which meant that I
knew I could ask if he had seen her—There was
something hermetic about certain quarters of
society, which differed here—to a degree— in
comparison to my observations from living in
other parts of the world. People like B were not
really just hanging on street corners, lurking,
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