There's something about breakfast which makes the whole meal a little depressing. Is it the dirty dishes trying to attract swamp lilies in the sink? Is it the blood-like speck of tomato sauce that hasn't yet made it down the drain? Is it the empty can which I will have to carry for two miles to the closest recycling station? Perhaps. But maybe it's just the time at which this particular breakfast is being served. 11:15. The day is halfway over. The cycle of nourishment, eternally lagging behind, has just begun.
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