Technicolor Breakfast Liturgy

The room hums like a shrine to plastic certainty, each surface lacquered in colors too confident for innocence. Someone arranged that cereal bowl with skeletal precision—milk still cold, loops bobbing like coins tossed into an algorithmic well. Over by the fridge, magnetic letters bark their question in carnival tones: WHERE VOJTA? As if punctuation could summon him from the antiseptic calm crouching behind the sliding glass door. They performed their morning ritual here, or so the evidence whispers: a lone chair angled toward the sun-lashed yard, spoon planted like a ceremonial dagger. It feels less like a kitchen than a stage waiting for its missing lead, lines dangling in colored plastic. Vojta’s absence clings heavier than the scent of cereal dust. The search continues, unblessed and garish.