Imagine if everything you ever sought after in life was in molten form bubbling below you, and all you had to do to be surrounded by it entirely was to dive straight into it.
That's what happened to the fruit fly who was singed to death in my hazelnut soymilk mochaccino.
Ah, the vagaries of desire. They can be responsible for one's pain-racked decease. Or they can act as soma for the mind -- erupting in lava bursts of burning flowers like fireworks that make the jaded one feel like smiling is natural once again.
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