Reckless drips of bone marrow broth had formed into a kind of veneer which held the tiny ramen house together.
After the Rites of Zhou, all chopsticks had vanished, displaced by the ancient fluid dynamics of koji, shubo, & moromi. For once the Byzantine Generals had no problem.
It had been ages since they'd eaten together as a family, and it was good for them to know the only latency was synaptic. The walls of the ramen house flickered with the light of a single candle.
The consensus among them was for landfall upon the mango strewn shores of that fabled emerald isle.
Coco coladas and admiration all around for the architects of freedom.
And although regressive energies lurked amidst the uniformity of each smartscreen, they knew of no algorithm which could unlock the secrets of the heart.
In this awareness a true network of allies was forged, of pure sunlight, yet drew strength from the shadows.
The tiny ramen house; temporal, fleeting, eternal, indifferent to the passage of time.
Home to the umami of ages, the hospitality of truth, the sweet taste of liberty.
Good thoughts
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