A quick break, I think, from breakfast.More tea? More fruit? More eggs? More meat?
No, no more, as it strains the gut and makes one think of things' end. The bottom of the cup. The rind of the melon. The empty, broken shells. The specks of fat and flesh and grease.
Fissile eggs and gristle dregs.
What a drag, what drags this yoke.
An empty cup, filled up, retains.
A filled-up cup, spilled over, stains. No more tea.
Morte, then.
Better so, for there is no moral immortal. Though it slay me, yet I will serve it.
No better man for the job.
No better man from the job. Worked to rest. Man aboveboard.
Notoriously meritorious. And not unmaritimely.
Even a lifeboat takes a stern bow.
With water on all sides.
Deep water, if one is lucky.
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