The Wistful Grid
You eat the bread. It is stale. The crust is hard. You bite down. Your teeth crack. The white interior crumbles. You swallow. It tastes of dust. It tastes of iron. You are in the kitchen. The clock ticks. The steam rises. From the pot. On the stove. It is morning. The light is grey. The light is thin. You look at the table. The table is bare. Except for the plate. The plate is blue. Chipped at...
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