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Yours *TrulyJuly*

I do everything content.

When life writes stories.



He’s cleaned the pot nicely. It’s almost shiny.

He managed to fill it with water just enough to cover the meat.

This would take some time until boiled soft, good thing he started with the food first.

Now for setting the scene: He cleans up the place and ends up with a whole black bag stuffed with rubbish. He doesn’t have a broom, but pushes the dirt with his feet into the corner. He especially cleans the cooking area and checks that the pot sits stable. He makes the bed. He picks up chairs, drums, buckets, whatever he can find to sit on, and places them around the fireplace.

He heaves as he takes a step back to admire the result.


Then he turns to call: Mister, Mister!

A stressed out hipster opens the door.


What do you want?

Salt, Sir.

What do you mean, salt?

Well, please Sir, a pinch of salt. I’ve been cooking.


He points across the abandoned plot, along the evenly dispersed litter and the crude bed that is covered in a plastic sheet, at the makeshift fire with an old oil barrel for a pot that is steaming under the open leaping flames with a stomach churning smell.


Yes, a pinch of salt it is.



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