It’s back again. No, gone. Or is it? No, definitely not, still there. Gone. Here. Gone. Here. Hone. Gere.
(pop).
Even nearly a year later you still manage to make me feel unwanted. How could you ever gain so much power over me?
(pop).
Just give me a moment– this is worth it, I swear.
All I wanna do is..
I’ve always said, “You don’t say things you don’t believe. Nope, all Truth. That’s “Big-T-Truth.”
“Why the hell did I make this spaghetti?” Laughter. Noodles on the floor at this point. Sticking. John, Paul, George and Ringo are overcome with joy: all their prayers fulfilled! Proof in the Almighty, no doubt. It’s the process of life, those noodles crusted upon the floor. They’ll never come up, no sir-ee! No matter how much you scrub, the twisted fibers of carbohydrates anchor themselves into the microscopic valleys of the nylon floor.
So, the noodles remain crusted. A year later, still crusted to the floor, discolored, disjointed, only vaguely resembling the love and hope they were when they fell out of the pot. Forgotten, perhaps, but still there to be looked upon when you find yourself drifting back to the night they jumped from the scalding heat.
But, looking back, it all seems okay. After all: who wishes to put dirty noodles back in the pot?
