One Year, 12 Pastas
We wake each morning to find ourselves stranded.
More steadfast than the day and month and year before, we hide from the sun and rush to fashion a raft or buoy or lifesaver or something worthy of an adventure.
We hurl ourselves, furiously, into the quickening void. Waves stir and strengthen, dissolving earth into water as the tide takes land back into it’s salty lair.
From our delicate perch, we watch yesterday’s island slowly disappear.
We are adrift, quiet and alone. Surviving the day’s storm, we navigate to shore and arrange our bodies under an infinite sky.
The only souls — together — we are an island, surrounded on every edge.
Tomorrow we will wake to find ourselves stranded, more resolute than the day and month and year before. We’ll hide from the sun and fashion a raft, or something, then push ourselves away from safety and into the raging world.
But not tonight.
Tonight we carbo load...