Dreamspace Studio

Some mornings, only the coldest truth will do:
A container from the fridge, condensation beading like morning dew,
inside: the promise of last night’s feast—
General Tso’s chicken, sticky, glistening, gloriously congealed.

The sauce is thick now, lacquered onto crisp-but-tender chicken,
no longer hot, but bracing—sweet, spicy, a punch to the palate.
The fried rice is a little dry, each grain now an individual,
standing apart like hungover party guests,
and broccoli—wilted, soft, surrendering to the universe.

There is something about eating this with a plastic fork at dawn,
standing in your pajamas, cold fridge light pouring over your face,
that feels like a secret victory—
the world might judge, but you know:

This is the breakfast of survivors,
of neurodivergent dreamers, of poets and weirdos,
who find comfort in unlikely rituals and leftover fortunes.

Let the world keep its pancakes and toast.
I’ll take my fortune cold,
with extra sauce and a side of dignity restored.