I barely need to eat, in fact, I do not: being maintained purely by the (as yet) scientifically unproven yet still wildly plausible new age process of human-plant photosynthetic soul bonding, merely by fondling tree bark at the correct harmonic frequencies I can absorb the pure, natural energy of our Goddess Mother Earth. I require no sustenance! I am powered by nothing but the sun! plus additionally a clear conscience, clean living and the internal combustion of distilled ethyl alcohol. Reminds me of a short story by Kafka called “The Hunger Artist”, but then again I'm cheating with the appetite suppressants, not suffering enough, taking the tourist route and cutting off the sights and smells of the slaughterhouse in favour of sterile plastic wrapping and flavoured luncheon sausage. Smiling cartoon cows sing camp-fire songs urging me to eat more beef. A cherubic pig with a corkscrew tail winks suggestively and then helps himself to a juicy rasher of bacon. Even the chickens hawk their eggs on street corners.

The other day I watched an angel scorch the feathers from her wings, and by her side were loaves and loaves and loaves of the most wonderful wonderful magical bread, baked slowly at room temperature for a period of several days, and left totally unmixed , so that the flour, having no real alternative, had simply poured itself into shapeless piles on the floor, and I remember a bowl of plucked toenails, most tastefully arranged, shoulder to shoulder, like a little flower garden of petrified infants, and steaming rice pudding with a sprig of fresh mercury.

I could take you! I could show you! All this feast. All this food on offer – the naked angel, the piles and piles of unbaked bread - the toe nails, not easy to obtain—the sixty four busted household thermometers I had to buy and smash wide open just so that everything would be absolutely surgically fucking perfect

AND YOU DON'T EVEN WANT TO COME.