He went in search of beauty this morning. Earlier, for breakfast,
it was pork sausage, eggs basted and buttered toast.
The cellulose casing cracked about the roof of his mouth
as he peered curiously into the metaphoric adjective on the plate.
Whether it came first, after or preceded some precedent was
important for no apparent reason. Suddenly, from within
the perfectly placed virgin vitellus, he heard the cry.
“Why me?”
The edges of the white lay crusted by the fatty tallow that had
gone ahead; somewhere a pig smiled when the rooster crowed.
Then, it was time for lunch.
Châz
