44/52 Feast: Their Story


First comes love. Then comes… a meal stands before me and I’ve no room for it to eat. Though the room before me is immense, it is crowded with faces, smiling for holiday festivities, and the chair beside me is not enough to keep an appetite insatiably from varying agains the shores of wine and dined apathy.

I stand before, seated, a spread of options, of flourishing activity. But alone, I wonder into idle–the ideal of things. A hen needs. A hen wants. A hen, of a certain age, or perhaps just me, to fertilize the egg. But a hen needs what she doesn’t want. Worse for wear, fruit simply picked until the fruit is scarce, and scarcely still, until the picked over fruit isn’t there on the deserted, barren fruitless tree. And it was a season of slim pickings, believe me. Rationings are amongst us all in the desert of a hen named Eve.

That which was without ripe, worsening with worms and virus, all that survived beyond these tests of time, shriveled now, picked over by the most filled, for they beat to the slim pickings, that of the needing and hungry.

Now, staring into the panic of a tiding time and joy, solemnly, it is quite obvious how everyone has simply settled. Even this, confusing, yet massive family before the peak of the bar’s rim, the glasses trim–a family, a buffet of the couples eleven. These that merely gave in. Idled from the ideal of living slim pickings. They gave in, settled, and now find themselves hungry as they pick at the feast before the likes of you, if you were here with me. Neanderthals, brutally. This is my meal, as I watch the feed.


First comes the hen. Not the egg. For without existence there can be no new life. An argument as old as time and rhyme for scansion and psychological serial murdering wines. Passover has long since passed and staring into the window, it must be antiquated just how truly miraculous anatomy is. That of any subject, but especially to form, that of food over substance, that of timeless rhyme, the subject of much hope, and nature: a woman. The one issue with the anatomy being: male. This male in particular. Men are much weaker, for they have stronger compulsions, bursts of “productivity”, needs. All are needing, but men are needy. I am in need of many things. At the present moment, food. For every day, despite my merits and good grades, am broke. And passing this daily, the daily cafe, I but wish I could break in, and break out a Benjamin, to afford such a wonderful display. Until then, I shall collude to feast upon the visuals of these: a woman, and the eleven before thee.

The argument, philosophy will annotate through religious studies, is that from man comes woman–and quite obviously woman was last to be made on the planet, for she is perfection. Like experimentation, she is the correct and final product of the studied nature of all forces, woman, mother, and earth in her great bounty. She is the implement orchestrated, and before me particularly outside the curve of others. For, unlike a nasty, I watch. I watch not only the food, for there is but a feast, I watch her, endlessly. Day in and out, I wait for this time to live, to watch the woman before me. And here I feast in dreams of what one day, tomorrow could be.


I came empty. I was full with conversation and thinking ahead. Who knows, but I, the hen of the where conversations can lead, when breaking that of unleavened bread. Who, but I, to dictate the different, that which diction, to where and towards, more precisely, where I want it led.

For now, friendship. But there is potential for one more of these. To ring forth our own eleven. For fertilized egg.

Potential. That’s where it begins.

Cheers, Adam, the first and potential last to which a hen has clucked. Cheers to you, the one I have wrote.


I came hungry. I was filled with bread and a level head, squarely stated above the posture of such astute nature, I paid no attention to what status the fluff of such a yeast, a roll may be lead. Conversations presumed, for now, deeply good.

Potential, lies here. But for now, friendship. For past this, I have no intent. I had ┬áno intent. For before now, I hadn’t even bread. This, Eden of sorts. The restaurant I wished but only dreamed of. And on the eve such as this, with an Eve before. I take off my coat. I relax and speak, but more often I listen. And I note the potential. I drink it in. No, I have no intent beyond my gratitude. My appetite for this, evening Grace.

It began with a prayer. For that’s what all dreams truly are. Hopeful prayers. And by Grace, you took me in.

Cheers, Eve Grace to which I had merely hoped. Cheers to you, the one I have wrote.

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