Here at the edge of the world, a dark globule hovers; it hangs from the tip of a spoon. This globule contains everything: it contains spit, it contains fibrous residues, it contains resin. Faecal matter swims beneath the dark reflective surface of this world. It contains oil, bath salts, blackberry jam, and boot polish. It holds carcinogens from degraded plastics in its poisonous embrace.
The globe, a sphere, falls, and splashes below.
The globe joins a sea of undulating bubbles in a saucepan on the rim. It is stirred; the spoon descends, shakes it, releases the dirt from sediments on the ocean floor. A cloud rises. The resin, dark and gritty, and the pith of blackberry, with its tight and unmelting particles of jelly, mix and swim. The spoon scrapes along the bottom of the pan. Flakes of aluminium join those particles of dust, unseen and unheard, silver flashes in the dark.
Who cooks this dish? Emmett holds the handle securely. Levin grates with the nutmeg grater. Neil discovers the good of Golden Syrup. Erwan urges that more of this be added. James hovers by the kitchen door whistling tunes. Levin MacHill shakes his head and laughs. Barry tuts: we should drink instead. Hamish smiles, though he himself will not take of this good brew.
The ceremony: the passing of the cups. Each tastes, and each looks nervously on, looking into the excited eyes of others, sipping uncertainly. A smile plays on my lips; it is mirrored in you, my reflection for this moment.
One person takes his final dregs with a hasty tip of the wrist: he gags as the grainy bits of resin stick to his throat. He gives us a hard glare. Chastised, we hurry to finish our cups. All gag and stick out their tongues in revolt.