09-28-2016, 07:23 PM
I am weeping. Saltwater runs down my face in torrents, but dries the moment it leaves my skin. And the little creatures (they are so tiny) they wait below with expectant eyes. Hopeful eyes. Accusing eyes. You see, I promised them an ocean. And I am weeping. I am. You can see it on my face, so much so that the salt is crusting in my cracks and crevasses. And, though I have been weeping these ten long years, still they have not been able to collect one drop. But they wait. They are always waiting. And they look. They are always looking too. At me. And the looking makes me weep. And the weeping give them hope. But still there is no ocean. There will never be an ocean.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara