It was a call to purest reason—that alma mater of those of resolution, taking up life as a matter itself—that one day that one was sitting at plain table, gazing at his meal. That after due diligence to his conscience, bowing to his servants—seeming to admit, not perfection that merited service, but imperfection, acknowledging that their acts kept him alive via the feeding of the evening meal.
He was saying how it was all as such, similar: the bread dough and a well-prepared loaf were much the same. Why, it was only appearances that seemed to differ, from the unattractive lump of dough to the natural conclusion before him: the loaf had browned nicely, and there were dispersions in the surface of the thing, “comely” he called it.
He went on so much made of exhalations of spirit; how emotions or company made much of it, it were only quantifiably simple chemical reactions in a very finite capsule of time. I was thinking from the confines of my own capsule to give a call back, and say, “show me”, this focaccia he was going on and on about.
Likewise: baked, boiled and air-fried were the SEC, Sun Belt and ACC, and the three of them in the four times multiplied heat of Nebuchednezzar’s furnace, and a fourth among them that appeared to be the son of God.
All we needed was lemon and garlic butter. And afterwards the great set of tines: Decision 2008.