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Artist: Anna Sawin
Source: Google images |
Its hot outside. Gloom forgot its place and sitting in the middle the fat sun munching away at the cloud of white as it waters down the golden crust. Crisp. Between the nooks, inside and over and a tinge of yellow, creeping, golden emulsions. A spectrum of light. And the drumming stops because all is still as the apples watch (in the sidelines). It is their fate: To be sliced, stuffed till they cannot comprehend, stuffed till dizzy with nostalgia. The life of an apple. The fanatical metamorphosis as life slices its way into thin, condensed strips, our memories dissected form the whole. Our whole. The minds of philosophers, scientists, of the office boy, the shop girl in the corner street. A piece of the whole, a slice of our minds: A humble piece of pie.
<nom, nOm, Nom>
Note: In occasion of father's day, I decided to post a significant something my father holds extremely dear (besides mum). Pie and its happy bringings! Happy Father's Day, Dad!
