and in the mad kitchen is destiny brewing strange desserts sometimes to dust our fingers with powders of the miraculous time, the ceaseless angel that feeds the hungry moment
life is a dish grown cold, but yet must be eaten, in darkness punctuated by morsels of joy that burst as light when bitten mostly dimmed by dreams of the past, at times invisible
ours is to grasp the seconds as they slip from our very appetites never to collect enough excuses to satisfy the craving to be as the winds lick the magic from our hands, emptiness howls
and in the mad kitchen is destiny brewing strange desserts we that are starving for change have dreamed of dark sweets the angel to open the final taste, to drop us in the mouth of death
