morning eggs

    Morning eggs mix with blood, an arousing flavor of life and death.  The eggs are from the fridge, the blood comes from a canker sore on the inner part of my cheek that i bit into.  A day that begins with a finite ethos.
     The leaves remain green.  There is a respite these days, from what exactly, I'm not certain.  But there is a sense of it, an odd sense of solace.  It is strange, but it isn't weird.
     Perhaps it is merely something I dreamed last night.   We are victims of our dreams.  I don't recollect my dreams specifically--which makes it more unnerving, this sense of solace.  Perhaps it will come to me over me the course of the day.  It is  early yet.
    Just returned from my piss.  My face in the mirror looked acrid and inflamed.  I could attribute this to unconscious trauma that i have yet to actualize and acknowledge, but it is likely merely the result of the cheap laundry detergent i washed my pillow case in yesterday.