The pitcher sat half empty. It's thoughts drawing on it's contents. My thoughts: tracing the perfect ring coyly, seducing truth, funding other more lascivious entertainments, or better yet, distractions.
The drought slinked back words coming out of thick air. Little bits of truth expounsed, the virtue in a bottle - a penance sealed with a body and blood - duality of both conscious thought and intentions.
I measure out my intentions on spoons, crinkle them slightly and pour them into a beverage. It's all amount, everything that is, to consumption, devouring the unspoken, the breaths, the pauses, unsettled instances. The broken conscious and colors define the way our acts move in beauteous interpretations the soft sense a misspoken word or unedited sentence can come to an abrupt end.
--George
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