I walk towards the white door. Around its edges light bleeds into the darkness. All is silent apart from the hum of the fridge. I open the door. Like water from a burst dam the light escapes and floods the twilight edges of the kitchen.
I watch my creations as they sink into the milk. I had loved them. Shared such intimacy with them and yet. Yet here they are severed from me drowning in three-day-old milk.
Below me in the kitchen, my fridge hums.