Señor Juan's cottony plume of deeply exhaled breath coasts across the open door onto the terraza, a tired ghost embarked into the morning dark. He thinks of the awaiting day without anticipation. Señora María Jose lifts the heavy cast iron lid of the Belgian waffle maker, each doughy pocket's profundity sighing a gentle wisp of moist sweetness. Señor Juan takes a long, patient sip of mud black coffee, his eyes' gaze twinkling, but then lost into another frosty dawn on the mesa grande. María Jose lovingly cups the hot waffle in her worn hands and carefully lines its interior with spicy ground beef. A pan of piping hot huevos impatiently pops and sizzles, seemingly eager to make its home in the gridded burrow of waffle and meat. Señor Juan isn't dreaming. Breakfast is here. The Taco Bell Waffle Taco, like his oldest and most faithful mula, will accompany him on this day. This day that always was to be. This day that forever is.
What the fuck is so everything blazing and truth.