THE CROUTON
As I sit on a glass roof, tripping, watching the sun dial in rotary
fashion my mother tries to catch my attention but I ignore. The acid starts
to simmer so i start to listen. She says that she has two trucks full of wine
ready for transport, in need of an ancient french ritual. We descend to the
vehicles, and there is a man, a bowl, some croutons and a wine glass. In
some magic trick the wine flows out of the glass and floats in the bowl, a
toast is made, an engine revved, and onward...
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