Early grey mornings steeped in mist and celebrating the victories steering away from “soft” and “small” and “untouched”. And ditching the cloaked maybes and perhaps’ with actual sentence starters to breed a confidence that feels unbridled so I look up to the sun screeching signs and mock a sibilance that I desperately want to write and so I did, and I am veering away from the “I” for silly reasons where writing just feels like a saccharine contrived creation myth attempting to construe words into delicious sounding phrases too delectable to resist and (perhaps) that is the point, to create a feast of language to enjoy, repel, disgust, entice, dream of. A creation of consumption: 
And it all comes back to the milk, milk left or spilled and I recently drank milk and honey, a sweet mixture of childhood and innocence, seemingly entangled, and the transport of sense of taste and smell where words can attempt to mimic the nostalgia of the fresh toast burnt, with melted butter on the countertop, dewy marmalade seville orange (so they said). Sugarcoated. But description is only description and I will never be able to describe the scent of a distant memory that I cling onto every now and then, touching its exterior corners with fingertips