Sour Bread

The fresh milk, or rather the pasteurized, not the half boiled ultra high stuff, the simple stuff one step away from the pure stuff, you know the white stuff you first tasted, or at least a calf tasted, that stuff. The thing which can trigger the hypo center of emotions to trigger the hyper center of pleasure. Most pleasurable and body temperature, somehow it evolved to be pleasurable cooled. Probably conditioned by the first development of memories of that not so fresh milk fresh from the fridge. The small craving, a lack in isolation, the reality of choice. That special delight that brings moments of joy when ever it is near. When just the though, not smell nor taste can wet the lips. A strange conditioning, a strange passion. This delight under these conditions was put on ice, frozen, deep frozen in the belief that its constitution would hold together for the time, before fresh supplies could be sourced. But the life within did not stop with time- it is a living thing. This investment in future pleasures only delays the inevitable fact that fresh is not frozen. And it may slow the process and delay the fact that fresh milk is there for the consuming the pleasure of drinking every day, Before dawn, morning, day and night, when ever the desire stimulates the primitive mind. To take pleasure in the effect of it texture and colour. And be drugged by its flavor of that gentle journey it takes across the tastes buds, stimulating the crags and crevasses to build the picture of its surge in my mind. But that fresh milk was sitting in the deep freezer while natural process continued. Nature has evolved a way of reminding you that that which is not used will be taken over by that which will. My ignorance in such matters have left me marooned with out means of satisfy my dependence. In the mornings when the darkness fades and the rivers of cloud turn white, I wonder about means of escape. I wonder what use I can find for what is left of what once was.

And here is where it ends, I need to go check the oven.