Everyone crawls up out of their eyes, eventually. Flailing out of their pupils like flatworms teased up the gullet, lured by cheese in the kitchen's tweezers. Hand over bilious hand, foot after foot after food drawn up and spilled out, pale and wet, into the sink.
My kitchen, my sink.
And I know you might get lost there, back behind, and down the drain. And you have my sympathy. But stop looking at me, else you all end up vomiting yourselves.
Out your eyes.
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