The tea is hot and it heals me. My throat is tired from breathing

my life away with empty talk, but broken flowers have been dried 

and jiced for me to be silent with them. On the table, next to

the steaming mug are jars of sauce. Peppers and water and salt. 

Soybeans and water and salt. 

There isn't any noise but the munching. My brothers prayer and

my own. The contents of th eearth have bee brought to us so that 

we my consume them, become the earth. We are like warriors 

eating the manna of their enemies. To gain their power. 

We are the earth because we eat it. And we are carved from the

same clay. My brother and I are not single lines but a collection of 

infinite points. There is a difference. We are in the smae plain, our

numbers are real. But we only touch once before we run away again.