Horizontal, open, rinsed.

Waiting for the gun, the hiss, the probe. Etching foundations of calcium, scratching away the deterius of everyday consumption. Getting back to natural. Layers of days. Strata of flavors. Onionskins of seated moments, stories and forks, compressing around gums and waists. These are the remnants of our days. The leavenings of our time here. Sloughing it off hurts, but to save the tooth, you sacrifice the history. I am what I ate. Historyful.