Bread

This “piece” was a result of the free flow writing exercise we did, that was supposed to warm us up to write something, instead I kind of found what this process did to be interesting and nonsensical and very stream of conscious, which I always enjoy writing.

Flour, flower, moneybags.  Watch it rise.  The crust, the earth’s, the unwashed.  A fireplace, brick oven.
Fifty percent of the bare minimum.
Sour dough, rustic, flat, white, wheat, rye.
Inbreds.
Interested by hunger, guilty by association that rhymes in a false place.
the heart of the matter is necessity.
This is all about desire.  Desire is distracting.
Everything is missing when you try to compile infinity.
My mind is caverns, ball rooms, garages, alleyways, restaurants, beds, bathrooms, jungles.
This is leading to a singular point, as all things do, and absolute truth that is inside everything in or out of existence.
Never near the end, something is always missing, that’s what keeps us alive.
The chase for enigmatic impossible.
I’m starting to sound like a scientist.  I am much more simple than that.
This is the point of view of someone watching me watch them while watching them inside the eyes of someone else watching me watch myself.
Have I started writing? Righting? Wronging? Longing?  Don’t be short with me!
A slap across the face value of a rare form of identity stolen goodsidewalk away with the wind-upword travel log cabin fever of 109 degrees from prestigious universe cities parallel ism’s okay then now we are gone forever young womans room and board to death clock on the wall flower growing in a tin can you please help me and you are such a……

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