sushi sambar

I'm becoming more articulate; my sneezes sound almost exactly like "achoo." At the restaurant, meanwhile, porters warn "Hot" or "Behind," but more often, "Be-Hot!" Kevaughn in pastry underwent a painful teeth-bleaching and can now consume only white substances: milk, bread, apples with no skin. I recommended cocaine, topically. The market is green again, ramps are rampant, but it turns out the oxalic acid in spring spinach inhibits the absorption of its (considerable) calcium. I learn from my German textbook that an ostrich egg contains the equivalent of 24 chicken eggs. Fat George stampedes through the galley with trays sloshing, shouting, "Chicken blooood, chicken bloood!" Things are becoming more themselves, more or less. Who is where, where is who, will is want.

Other than that, I've been on a yoga retreat. The throaty melody of my bald teacher's German plays on in my head. Das Straußenei! I'm sick of the internet. Sasha Frere-Jones posits that the internet and real life are planes of consciousness comparable to those of speech and the written word. I wish someone else had said that, so that I could feel less embarrassed considering it. I get drunk off kombucha most nights. Some day I'll make my own, or at least talk about it. In India, a Chinese girl told me, whenever you ask how long it will take to get somewhere, you are told, "five minutes." Five minutes later, you ask someone else, who says, in turn, "five minutes," and so on, for hours, until, eventually, you have a beautiful metaphor.