By: MJ Pfaff
The penitential slop has subsumed me; now I stand, inanimate and opacious as a block of tofu before this bowl of synthetic pulverized oat remnants and chemical conglomerate. The liquid—dare I diagnose it as water—trickled forth from the runoff of an infertile farm, where once, in a fit of ferocity, the owner’s son attempted to murder him. Instead he imposed his blows of bellicosity upon an oak tree until it tumbled to the earth, descending in silent acquiescence.
Tell me—there’s nothing in here, is there?
Photo Credit: Mary Jane Pfaff