My soup is an ancestor of mine.

This potato’s potassium filled the crumbled bones of the past.

Picked locally by a Mexican migrant worker,

Whose soul has animated a great emperor,

Whose atoms combined with mine, were once part of the same human body.

In the common illusion, we were slaves together.

And we still are.

I scrub a thick layer of soil.

Partly made up of tightly packed soil.

There is nothing that isn’t there.

The manure, the kings, the stars; the beginning, the end.

Nothing is absent.

Only forgotten.

This soup is everything.

Primordial and eternal.

Even the invisible space created by the spinning penny on the table.

A constant return to the end, that soon becomes the past.

Everything assembles and disassembles.

Until all the veils are lifted.

And then what?

…The promise…?

When I feel something it is because I am unaware of the sun.

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