Monday, February 15, 2010

Brown Bread

There is a hunk of brown bread left on the table. That and a few crumbs from what appears to be, if the crumbs are divined properly, some beautiful, light and springy bread that would melt as it entered one's mouth. As the heavenly, Utopian loaf is consumed and absent, I take the brown bread and put it in my pocket, thinking not at all for the ramifications to come on washing day.

The kitchen is conveniently placed in a shaded forest grove. Who knew kitchen design was so cutting edge in these parts. I step away from the table and move onto the path. As I walk, I see a little house further down the way.

Approaching the house, I realize that it is a little house...made for someone half human size. In an Alice moment, I grab my brown bread and nibble a little piece as I close my eyes. With my eyes still closed, I feel myself getting smaller, shrinking. So eyes closed I step into the little house only to whack my head on the roof line.

Brown Bread does not make one grow smaller and it does gross things in the washing machine.

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