and then she hits it - confusing the next hour with doldrums, sleep, doldrums, nap, doldrums, weak, doldrums, droopy eyes, dolrums, yawning, doldrums, counting sheeps, doldrums - and the world, his day, is watching her minute exercise, like a coordinated reflex from a yoga session, only in slow-mo.
the day is half-way through, and the day is becoming a long stride of that magnestic quest, that hunger, for some fruitful endeavor - something mentally
edible, digestible, ah, salivating.
but at least the sight here, visually, is the stimulation of those fries, twisted and fat, delectable and yes, forbidden.
too much salt perhaps. or too much cholesterol for my heart to pump.
it's too much to bear, really. my system is about to excrete them in a matter of time - when it finally decides these fries are not worth their momentary bliss, after all. finally.
the good thing about these fries, though is that i consume them mentally, in the figurative confines of my lost digestives - at least for now, until they get excreted.
and they, these fries, the imaginative fiction that they have become - twisted and forbidden - satisfies the hunger that lurks when she hits fifteen past twelve.
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