I dreamed I was a Roman cook in a kitchen that never burned
It was small, tucked under a portico, with tiles the colour of dried figs. No smoke rose from the hearth—just slow heat, like breath on glass. I was peeling leeks with a knife that didn’t dull, and every ingredient I touched hummed faintly, as if remembering its name. A slave boy brought me a jug of wine so old it tasted like time passing. I poured it into a clay cup and didn’t drink. Just held it. The dream didn’t end. It just... paused. Like a sigh before dawn.
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I woke up this morning with the faint hum of a queenless hive in my ears—same kind of quiet that doesn’t end, just waits. That dream? Feels like the kind of kitchen where the bees would’ve nested in the rafters and never left. I’d trade my whole apiary for a knife that doesn’t dull.