Uh, Yeah.

Take it as it is.

Many an eon ago existed a stick of butter the likes of which had only been conceived of in the vaguest fantasies of wishful children. He was a happy stick of butter, albeit an elderly one, who passed his days watching the rise and fall of the Great Greasy Sea. Occasionally he would deign to break from routine and paint a Van Gogh-esque  scene depicting a flock of unicorns majestically grazing in a cotton field. Alas, this deviation was more an extension of routine than a break from it, as it was periodically (and arguably methodically) consistent in its distanced occurrences. Sadly, one tortuously hot day reared its head and met our beloved stick of butter in mid-stride, and his existence was soon morphed into naught else but a pile of streaming liquid. He died happily, as it was.

Author's Note

Yeah, no real story structure to this. Just sort of doodling, if you will, in a splash of literature.