It never rains, in southern California. It only pours. Man it pours. That is, until it doesn’t.
The antediluvian world drenched, the earth never was to drown again. The colours of a rainbow say so. The heavenly vow was to never rain out our parade no more. The new world will instead be toast.
“Will Monsieur have French or Plain?”
Gold, warm, and crisp.
“Honey or marmalade?”
That keyboard warrior had been quick to type “Agenda 21“. “Conspiracy geek!”, you had thought. Also, recall Mr Caldwell who in his Sunday best had warned, “the wrath of the Almighty it is.” At least that’s what you thought he had said. You had read his lips as he moved his hat to wipe the sweat off his brow that revealed a squint of the eyes to match the one at his mouth.
“He may have been right”, you now think. They could both be right, what’s more. All of a sudden you have lost interest in toast, as you wave back at garson. He holds up a cup.
“Yes”, you nod: I will have the tea.