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Today I made a sandwich. I didn't take a picture because it didn't look like much, but it was amazing. I share:
Hot coppa, serrano ham, anchovy filets, olive oil, red wine vinegar, and a dash of black pepper, on day-old baguette that I stuck in the toaster oven just long enough to soften up the bread and sweat the meat a little.
It was meaty, pungent, tangy, salty, crusty, chewy, and a dash of spicy. Like the archetype of "savory" just crawled up and had a party in my face. Utterly loved it, would recommend 10/10. Surprisingly cheap for the quality in it, too.
After I ate the sandwich, I was found dead in the kitchen (of sodium-induced hypertension), sporting a gloriously rich and dark mustache on my face that nobody had ever seen before. At the funeral, guests came for miles to caress and sigh at its glory before it was shut away forever in my tomb. The bravest menfolk dared to dream that one day they could wear such a glorious device upon their lips; the ladyfolk hoped through their tears that the menfolk would never try, on account that none of them could match the face-shrubbery lost to the world so quickly after it birth. Children whimpered (though they did not understand why) and looked at the weak upper lips of their fathers, growing older than their years in the blink of an eye, their innocence shattered; the pieces were forged into dreams and rebuilt into purpose and meaning to do better.
And somewhere far away (yet closer than our fragile minds can conceive) there is a deeply cowled figure standing tall amidst the fogs of time, a figure wrapped in a shadowy robe the color of an infinite midnight and who clutches a tall, wickedly gleaming scythe, wearing a face frozen in the eternal rictus of a skull... an immortal grin that is shrouded by a gloriously rich and dark mustache. The figure silently takes you by the hand, as it did me, and leads you Elsewhere.
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