It was a rainy day for the most part, spent near wholly, by those of us with such pointed inclinations, indoors writing, save for the necessary excursions in the name of sustenance. As I poised myself to… uh… excurse out the door, to heroically brave light drizzle in search of something tasty, I was met with free cookies!
A shy lady going by the name of Martine was most kind in her abundant generosity of promise to Drummer Rafael in delivering some savoury treats. However, Martine conferred upon me the temporary status Keeper of the Cookies, that I may distribute said favours freely and fairly on the morrow. Four boxes, of total volume greater than my head (and that’s not something the wind can blow over) now lie in my room, tantalising in their static pose, asking greatly with soft, high-pitched voices to be eaten in a variety of ways: on the balcony, in the tub, in twos and threes (but never groups of four, or prime numbers) upside-down, posing for selfies, naked, wearing odd socks, et cetera, until a time indicating the inevitable finitum. The list might be endless if the cookies followed such a suit, but their number is fixed, like the surety of craving.
Can I hold my hunger until the break of day? Will the cookies make it to the venue? Will the crew descend upon them like hooded vultures drawn to the spoils of a lion’s kill? Will we draw lots for inclusions in organised knife-fights for the last solitary chocolate biscuit? The passage of our lives in a cosmic orbit is but the one surety of knowing. Sleep well. <blood-congealing scream of evil>