天色渐渐暗下来，夕阳把大地染成淡淡的金棕色。暖风吹拂下，我把衣领松开，转身缓步往回走，把周边所有树木都留在身后的暮色里。它们或许也在目送我，照例把那些有关生命、生发的腹稿，继续含在抿紧的苞唇里，只是在春风吹过时，每根枝条的顶端都争相报以会心的点头致意。
I searched for benign explanations. Could it be that milk is simply too heavy, and that by including the weight of the water content that boils off I am tilting the simplex too far in its direction? Could it be that by excluding slices of bread as ingredients since they aren’t raw flour and do not go in a mixing bowl, I have excluded breakfasts like french toast, eggs in a basket, breakfast burritos, and breakfast sandwiches that might yet have saved us? Could I have overlooked some arcane culture that breaks their fast with dumplings or egg noodles? None of these satisfied me. The Abyss stared back.
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