There was a cake
But no one ate it
Then there was no cake
And still no one had eaten it
But everyone remembered it
It didn't look that nice
It looked like it needed more chocolate
It looked like it needed less sugar
It tasted like...
Who said that?
No one answered
They looked at each other
with dark chocolately glances
No one ate the cake
It just vanished.
But not without comment.

There are beautiful things that live in my house
they tend to occupy the fractured crevices inside of my walls, adumbrating a kind of obscure phenomenon: shadowy luminescence
they tend to sink into the spaces between the ceiling and the roof, immersed in chocolately darkness and dust, eating termites for supper
they tend to isolate themselves in the acidic liquid of my kitchen sink, bathing in rotting rye and leftover cherry wine, finding peace in polarization, a prize in the priceless, a perfection in the pitfall
There are beautiful things that live in my mind
they tend to whisper to me because they know I can discriminate between their desperately voluminous silk and the vortex of thickening threads that cages my cognition in demonic demands
There are lots and lots of beautiful things
but beautiful things don’t ask for attention
they tend to slink in the shadows.

She lives in oversized mugs, her signature is a coffee stain and ashes. She's overthinking about what her hippie friend said. I don't believe were supposed to end up with our first loves.

She made her second *** of coffee, poured a steamy cup, it flowed and filled within her a sense of secret certainty. She drank out of a healing cup.

This can't be how the movie ends. She tried to get these thoughts out of her head, but it was too early in the morning she'd been up all night thinking what if he knew, what if he saw what you did. She thought about all the mornings he made coffee and made it extra chocolately with a dash of cinamon.