...but there's this little problem.
I dream at night not of sex, or satisfaction, or allaying of hunger - but of feasts.
Nothing is sufficient but the possibility of excess. The pick and the choose, not the settle or the sufficient.
I do not know how to strangle the need for the overblown, overeaten - so I choose to never start.
The table is laid with a thousand fatty, beautiful delicacies and crisp haunches but instead of choosing - I walk away to the corner and listen to the music, watch the dancers and the eaters.
