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Weekly Contest #339
the present (the point where the past wins its race against time) When the yellow yolk of the Sun first touches the horizon in the distance, you flinch as if it touched you instead. You look up, expecting the Sun to be swallowed by the Earth, feeling the yolk burst in your mouth and trickle down your throat in salty wetness, but it lingers. There’s an itch in your throat and you lift your hand to touch it, but it goes away. When you were little, you saw the clouds and imagined tasting them like cotton candy, feeling the wispy strings of suga...
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