Last night I dined with afterimages of angels, in whose minds I was the quotient of their imaginations. We were served emotions by maids whose faces were mirrors, and we ate until only distance remained. The flavor of despair was akin to blood, like iron ground into nothing, only a tingle that something once was. Solitude tasted of a star grown cold, reminded me of the air of Autumn where the leaves had all fallen, complete, yet yearning. Anger was the strongest rum pressure could distill, it churned in my belly like a violent wave disbelieving its confinement. And our dessert was joy, yellow sprouts of light which had the savor of a tickle, and was gone before the tongue had finished tasting. Afterwards, the Book of Life was opened, and every name written therein danced ethereally above the pages and then rained into my soul to give me new breath. The air, now heavy with promises, folded, again and again and again and again, until finally, being nothing, everything was as the moment before creation, empty and perfect.
