Science-Fiction

There were onions in the pot. Hissing like bad dreams do even through the first cup of coffee. There was sweat on her spatula as she shuffled the ingredients through the flame. Eagerly pushing the raw out of her way.

There was talk of purgatory and liasons with dementia. As we scoured through the scraps for soemthing to eat. Hungry enough to put it in our mouths. But too optimistic to keep from throwing it up. It's all story when taken slowly. The lazy paragraphs of life come into focus in a rush of humility.

It might be noon instead of midnight. Since I can't see from here if the clock says am or pm. I might be in so many elsewheres wondering if there are other me's. A complete range of me's from the most miserable to the happiest separated by only our obsession with ourselves.

Just as Roddenberry promised. Just as Star Trek iterated time and again. This is one outcome. This is one of the lives I could've lived. Somewhere there are better me's. And somewhere else there are worse ones.