Fries, art. The golden sticks that never disappoint, only when you burn them. They can be so crunchy, yet so spongy, you look at them. You know their secret. The sunflower oil in your kitchen, longing to encase the fries. Never too hot temperatures. The fries, gently diving in the oil, and the fryer takes care of it — a workhorse. Potatoes, a magic vegetable. To infinity, and all that we ever dreamed of. Cut them into sticks, they become what they always wanted to be. Even us would die to becomes fries for a day.
Side by side with the ketchup, the steaming fries say: “Go for it. What are you waiting for?”. Salt falls upon them like a slight hail shower in May. When i pick up the first fry, i am life. I do see the core of the pyramids and the cultures who put everything into it. Erecting monoliths. Just an attempt to be like the fries. When a wise man says, “Go to the fries”, you immediately know your journey ahead. This is the path, the way, the Dao. The master hit the bell, and everyone quieted. Fries were served, warm and crisp. All eyes were toward the fries. The trees and the birds all danced, the flower sprouted, men and women became harmony. The madness is gone.
The bitten fry.
Not in a million years i would question the existence of the universe as i hold my fry. The fry i bite releases my angst, and i transcend. I never heard of you no more. I always wanted to live a propserous life – now i do. I will wake you up, even late in the evening, to tell you of the fries. The plate now really serves a purpose. Nothing ever comes close when the fries are here.
One thousand and seven bulls came to see me eat my fries. Three horses proudly claimed the land and the mountains. My fries are mine, and your fries are yours. Eternity.
Are you willing to make your fries?
Are you ready to take the stand?
Are you the one on the podium, preaching about the fries?
This will be between you and God. But one thing is for sure: When your fries leave, they will return – even better, crisper, and lighter than before.
Namaste.
