Having someone else’s dreams
drinking someone else’s drinks
stuck with your own laundry.
Portishead was rumored to be back in the studio, making dark and fuzzy. Everything in our past is reapproaching; once announced, permanent.
Where is my swiss miss pouring me rivers of warm, fragrant, deep brown coffee from her gravid, gibbous, hell-white cleaves? My parchment-white, hundred-weight serving titaness who shines the light of the world when she turns and bends to pick up my fork.
The breakfast ritual ends in Valhalla with the tipping of maidens and history lessons, shouts of
“Present your singularity!” We begin burned by coffee and we end with our end in the beginning of all things.