I have with me a bowl of rice, rice so delicious, so pure. When I taste it, it melts into me and becomes such a part of me, such a part, that I only wish to have all my nerves upon it, in it, surrounding it, and grow numb in all places elsewhere. There is a sweetness in it hidden behind the bland austerity and I cannot help but capsize and delve in. There is an awful delight with it. So much that when there comes a passerby I scream, “Here, here, taste some of this lusciousness, it is gold, it is none less than gold, or diamonds, or other such nonsense. This rice feeds the soul, becomes the soul itself, gives the soul its greatest fuck, the best pleasure. Come, come, here, taste some. There is a lot, enough for the both of us to pass through this celestial gate. Come, here, come.” The passerby becomes frightened of the agitation, mistaking it for some evil trait or other, and walks hastily away, and I take the bowl and scamper after him. But the bowl hampers me, with its grave motions and spills, and I cannot run much further. I stand and taste the rice again. Pure, the worthiest thing of all, it is. But he did not wish to try. What made the man so unwilling? I could not fathom. It may hurt, as that kicks in crying pussies, but I still have the rice, the bowl. It is as if made of the milk of the angels, or the grounded, discoloured olives of paradise. It melted into me, and became such a part. Another passerby comes. I tentatively try, tell her of what she could become one with, but she laughs and I draw back, embittered. She, too, walks away, still a chuckle inside her, and I begin to feed on the rice again. One cannot become sick of it, or wish for a creamy, sugger-ridden dessert and dream of that while the rice is touched by my intoxicated tongue. It is the appetizer and entree and afters mashed into the peak of peaceful pleasure. Then another comes by, and she wishes to see the bowl, and taste of it, but she would not know. She would only pretend, at best, as she does now, and I scowl at her and cuss her out for her stance, and I resume my delight, taking no note of the vengeful pain I leave in her.