Juggling Eggs

If strict rationality
is mounting decoherence, then it flows
that what we were making in the kitchen will soon be forgotten, along with
some other ingredients. But it isn’t time to shout in this one:
we follow the river of connectives to a point of no return—just a “damn”,
a holiday photo leading to a final dredge—before we realise
we have already seen everything, visited here the year after our
funny turn: there’s nothing left to learn—not bleak: we sit in the boat thinking hard.
We shouldn’t say it again, Captain: this keeps us going—the river
beneath us, only not, with the chef coming up from the hold:
“Were you not in here for a reason?” It was supposed to be
anything goes Tuesday: tentatively
I claim the Captain mark: “I don’t think I want to remember—omelettes?”
Here I am now, looking over the chef’s shoulder at the waterfall. “No! I remember! We are
too fast today! Let’s drop the anchor and collect ourselves,” the chef already juggling eggs—Birds-eye: “When I started I at least felt correct.”