DON'T DREAM; THAT'S WHERE THE FRIKADEL LIVES
I was at a loss for words.
It was damp, and the heat was oppressive.
Probably just the down comforter.
According to the weathermen we were supposed to have a downpour. Serious rain. Not quite biblical proportions, but something significant.
That was it?!?
Barely even moistened the pavement.
Wahab Akbar was assassinated in 2007, in Quezon City.
I have no idea why that came to mind.
In my second dream everybody was eaten frikadel except me, because the hot mustard was gone and I was being neurotic about the proper way to enjoy a deepfried stick of ground horsemeat, binders, texturizers, flavourings, unidentified bestial proteins, salt, and spices.
Sometimes I can be far too picky.
Everything smelled so good.
Hot fat. And nutmeg.
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