Breakfast at the house


Part 13 of the 64-part series called "moon photos"

I haven’t eaten breakfast in days. Waffles no longer hold
an appeal for my tongue. Cereal and milk, old favorites,
have betrayed my sensibilities and left my mouth dry. I eat
lunch now, and dinner, but breakfast at neither of them.
I’m not sure how to feel about this development, if my body
is changing underneath me or if my mind is, above me.
I want to say, this is how the mornings go from here on out.
I want to cry. I see a desert before me stretching
as far as it can, to the stormclouds in the south. There is
no way out. The only vehicle was black coffee, toast,
scrambled eggs, a glass of orange juice: and it’s broken down.