The sunset had found us enjoying a bowl of spaghetti in the glow of candlelight overhead. A quartet was heard playing from afar. Something about her strawberry lips speckled a little with the marinara–that I realised how much more enticing they had become. And we had found our lips met in the middle as we happened to munch the same piece of noodle. Except that it was all somewhat a vague dream. It was us getting shredded and ripped by the event horizon as we experienced the spaghettification.