I think I write about food a bit too much.

I think I write about food a bit too much.

I think I might think about food too much. Strawberries with thick cream. Sharp lemon tang in each crumb of cake. They don't have food like that here.

But you've got your imagination. For now, anyway. These pastes can be the finest dining or they can be the swill that your nana gave you. Just takes a little imagination. Which is

a dearer and dearer commodity in here the longer and longer you are here. Then one day, even memory abandons you. And you're just there but nobody is home even though you go throug

-ught iron furniture would need another coat of Rust-Oleum next spring. Why wouldn't the angels of recognition come down now and anoint you with the scented oils of fame?

Was it the 'Hail Satan' banner hanging in the front window? Angels are so picky these days. Tsk, tsk. The gods must be crazy to keep rusty angels waiting in the wings, while

Satan served Disaster Sandwiches 24/7. His minions were accredited masters of war. The rusty angels hired a new ratman to rebuild their restaurant next door.

He sold anywhere from 3 to 7 sandwiches a day. His minions were miffed. But they all knew that the road to hell is paved with disgruntled minions. Where Satan goes they must follow

and even if they like it, they must act dissatisfied. Somehow, all these make-believe, one day, turned hell into a place of happy people overacting in their supposedly sad roles.