The corpse of epiphany gripping my soul's revelation like a ghost's accusation clattering in the cold sod's attic of my mind's insanity. Or perhaps it was just the bones of ice in my whisky's glass coffin whispering lies in...

𝒢𝑒𝓉𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒽 𝑜𝓃 𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓁𝑒'𝓈 𝒽𝓎𝓂𝓃, 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝒶𝓈 𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑜𝒹, 𝒶 𝓈𝓁𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝒾𝓁𝓂. 𝒜𝓈 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝑔𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒹𝓇𝓎, 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒹𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂 𝒾𝓃 𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝒹𝑒𝓂𝒾𝓈𝑒. 𝒪𝒽, 𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝑒𝒻, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝓁𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑔𝒽𝑜𝓈𝓉, 𝓎𝑜𝓊...

I once saw a man fold an omelet that wasn't an egg, from a block of cheese that wasn't quiche or folded,in a blanket of dust curling like lazy ghosts on a stove, that wasn't a stove but a...