You'll find it sometimes in what you eat. What it is, you might ask? It's Mystery Meat! Smells kinda weird, and looks just like ****. I don't want a dollop. No, not even a scoop. I don't even want it in Mystery Soup.
I put eggs in a *** with some water to cook turned the heat up to hot then the egg-timer took and I gave it a spin so the sand was on top and an aperture, thin, let the grains start to drop like a little landslide that just in a short while had begun spreading wide from a conical pile then I saw myself there in the egg timer's glass and returned my own glare just to fill the impasse but my face looked obscure seeming bulbous and stout with my chin on the floor and my brow at the spout as the sand tumbled south to the hour-glass base down my nose to my mouth just like tears on my face then I had this strange thought as I took an egg cup of how time can run short while it's filling right up now a thousand yard stare in those eyes, I could see existential despair facing infinity they left no room to doubt that we'd both been misled that time doesn't run out - it falls right on your head 'til you're buried alive with a mouthful of grit you might think you'll survive but it's not prone to quit then your eggs are all done time's caught up and been spent by the end of the run your not sure where it went but time waits for no man that much can't be denied so boiled eggs? change of plan - in the end had them fried.
abused aromas fuse the dwelling throats slacken and tighten good cooking can make a home a rooted clut of tallow
home sweaty home ignite another cigarette scrape a fingernail on the sofa a white grippy trail scrunch your toes in the deep greasy carpet and salivate on the wender of smoke from the cooking of the roast