If King Midas had somehow given his gift to my esophagus, then the coke I drank was equivalent to gold down my parched throat. I had flashbacks of Daniel Day Lewis from There Will be Blood, screaming as an oil well is exploding in back of him, raining down that most delicious drink: Oil. Yes ladies and gentlemen, The oil rained down like soft, refreshing Coca-Cola drizzled down my endothial Andes waterfall. So good I could not break my lips from the plastic rim. Red hugh reflected round the plastic greek pillar, ripped from the parthenon on my coffee table, with cardboard and marble for walls, and books for the philosophers. IF I ever had a prophecy, if it felt like a taste, you know, like salt or sweet or umami, if there was one called prophecy, that’s what this coke tasted like. To me it was the spongy flesh torn from the inside of a cactus, when you’ve been in the Mohave desert too many, oh so too many days. This coke was a coke to rule them. One coke to rule them all. I drank, the wet nectar in my cheeks which were feying some hint at a smile. I drank deeply from the gentle stream again, and again, but still I longed for more and more. The feeling inside was cool, a brisk trickle down the rain pipe, watering the bonsai below. Peace enveloped me, a temporal solace in my existential journey. Pauses spliced in between my life, as it’were. And they were short the splices were.
The one Coke to rule them all