That first urge to eat punctuated with mental images of everything you had been planning. Buttered toast. A human creation worth a Nobel Prize. We are such geniuses sometimes. Can’t we just make toast when we ponder violence? Like, you want to send off a missile, instead you must make a fine piece of buttered toast first. Chew this toast with love. East it like your last meal. Then decide if war makes any damn sense.

I picked up a French Peasant Loaf at the market yesterday. Pre-sliced, of course. There is some cultured butter waiting in the fridge. It’s gone extra cheesy so it immediately tickles the nose with Brie when applied to the hot toast.

This writing conjured so much the minute I got to the toast.

I am glad you pulled this out. I haven’t had much time to root around lately. I just try to keep up with the people I expect to see, and now that, walkerjojones, has rejoined us I am often stuck just reading them.

An extra delicious Saturday morning for sure. Mustn’t forget I have a Renga to participate in!

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