The Architect's Essence, The Diary of Sunrise

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I would like to congratulate all readers who have made it this far. If you have snacks now is the time to use them. (An excellent foodstuff you may like to partake in at this juncture is Blancmange’s Jam and Banana Pie, the recipe for which he has kindly shared on page 344.) If you require the lavatory or if you have soiled your undergarments, I suggest that you now take the appropriate steps. I would also like to urge those who have sought solitude to read this passage to contact your friends and families to let them know that you are still alive and well. I suggest that you now muster what strength you have left, compose yourself and prepare for the second half of this harrowing passage. As promised, here is my poem entitled ‘My Spoon and I.’

Please note that the following poem contained spoilers and so to maintain a sense of intrigue and suspense I have redacted the seventh verse.

My Spoon and I

My spoon and I make a perfect team,

Amongst utensils it reigns supreme.

All shiny with its concave head,

I hug it when I go to bed.

It makes light work of every chore.

It’s the hero of my cutlery draw.

It puts the knives and forks to shame,

And they’ve no one but themselves to blame.

It fits my hand just like a dream,

And helps me scoop balls of ice-cream.

I hold it if I feel alone,

And I know that I’m not on my own.

If someone near me is feeling sad,

And they’re wearing a frown,

When they look upon my special spoon,

Their frown turns upside-down.

Fearlessly it stirs hot tea,

And mixes cake so gallantly.

And my itchy back has met its match,

As my spoon knows just the spot to scratch.

Used when I bathe as well as cook,

As a stand-in for a rubber duck.

It doesn’t float but even so,

It always tries and has a go.





It’s quite adept at digging holes,

And scooping pudding out of bowls.

It once helped me unblock a drain,

But it shan’t be do that again.

It’s as pretty as a flower,

But without the stinging bees,

And as it has no pollen,

It doesn’t even make me sneeze.

My spoon and I entered a race,

Ran with an egg and won first place.

But my spoon and I we never boast,

For it’s the taking part that matters most.

I speak from past experience,

When I say it cannot fly.

But it knows its place, and that’s with me,

Not soaring through the sky.

It’s straighter than a ladle,

And blunter than a fork.

Softer than a hammer,

But harder than my chalk.

Though it’s never very talkative,

It listens really well,

And it knows my biggest secret,

Which I know it will not tell.

I polish it and make it shine.

I am so very glad it’s mine.

How much better off this world would be

If spoons meant what they mean to me.

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