A diet of expectations and calculations does nothing for the taste buds. The appetite is still there, not satisfied, sitting in a chair waiting for flesh to show its face. Where are you, meat? Don't be a coward. Don't disappear between a bun. Let me tear into you, bite after bite, raw and stripped from the bone.
Because I can't keep existing on air, on what's missing. I can't feast on famine. It's the juice that I need, the thickness of truth found in muscles. Give me proof on my plate. Give me a divine mess.
But in the meantime I'll continue assigning different tastes to different regions, I'll keep certain openings so small so that anything passing through must first dissolve. I won't solve my hunger problem. I will create chain reactions instead.
One day. One day I will dine, relishing in the rarity that has always been. Until then I'll keep chewing on the common.
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