Kitchen

A few judgments of the nervous system simply should be, but are not pared antecedent to their spread downstream, till the effector locales of human body.

Picture credits: @romantic.moments

His hand spilled under the strip of chiffon-silk veiling her moist dignity; a rush of oxytocin (amidst the musk scent) ostensibly blew calm out of sight. Dance of the manly ‘vygour’ under the red velvet sheets, had been hidden for too long until now; antiques of the bloodstream propelled the pair of rugged denims towards planetary crust. It wasn’t too late though, to apprehend what he committed to the first ever. The meat sword – without vision, thereon sighted blurred depths ahead.
He abstained only to manage a cut and run, this being his fourth try in as many years. He graced the streets too scarcely dressed for the hailing skies. Shivering strides caught up again at the closed doors where he was freed, half a decade back. Anxious brown eyes bent skywards only to see the whites flushing out of nihility. His stationary feet had already gave up on giving out, almost ignoring the trembling tissues. The tremors however, were dusted off shortly by a numbing darkness; he ultimately caught up with death.

The blank of his eyes shined to backdrop of a yellow-lit cubicle, honing mystique familiarity, just enough to house a rocking chair along with a library of coloring books (fifty strong) and one bed.

“Ah! You’ve woken up.. You need anything yet?”

“Just a glass of water, thank you” he smiled back, humbled. “But, where am I?”

“Dad found you last night in a yard across the street” said the twelve year old as he helped him up.

He gathered senses only to find flashes of the first kiss at an abandoned house which seemingly had put on liveliness thereafter, unlike him. He left the place with a farewell wave intended towards all four of his saviors, including the white (and no more damp) building enclosed by a green grassy lawn.

Back home; an intense heat of rejection stood oblivious to his retorts over last night’s act, describing them insufficient. Hence, the man stood himself up and carrying a heavy heart he left with a mum.

“Why is it so difficult to make the world understand?” Hollow once more, he walked away from the house, thinking about the plight of like-minded mortals who are rather thirsty for the ‘mild’ of anonymous care (sole cause of fools getting back to their folly) than for the unmeasured heights scaled via anything except ‘satisfactory lovemaking‘ with the one and only.

The stimulations, that caused his retirement from and return to each moment of high, were the overcooked produce coming from the cranial kitchens.

May God be with us in bliss and sorrow alike.

*Featured Picture: Josephine Cardine (via Mindtripworld2

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