time_shift Soma I’m eating rice for breakfast again. Rice with kale and mushroom and onion. I cooked today, surprisingly. I’ve picked up my favorite pair of chopsticks, and I’m talking to my cat as he eats his breakfast. I like the feel of these chopsticks against my lips. There’s slightly rough. They’re dark stained wood, the color of black coffee, with grain that has faded to a gray edged hue. I set them down across the bowl, but one tumbles away. I pick it up, and wipe it off with my napkin. It’s plastic and blue. It’s a fucking different length than the wood chopstick still resting on the bowl. This is not the wood chopstick I had a moment ago. I feel certain of it. Distressed, I check the floor. Was this blue some forgotten member of my cutlery drawer hiding on the floor? It doesn’t appear to be. The tile glistens smartly, shined recently for company. I lean back, wondering if my is so unreliable that I was wrong. That I’ve been eating this bowl of rice with mismatched chopsticks for ten minutes and didn’t even notice. That the joy I felt when I realized they were clean and chose to pick them both up from the drawer was perhaps focused too intently on just the one. But what else is there? Leaks and gaps in time. Glitches in the matrix. A foreboding sense of insanity. 231220 what's it to you? who go blather from