I don't want to eat this. Every ounce of every thing I've made. It comes near my mouth, I send it elsewhere. I send it back. Back to the plate. Back to the oven. Back to the refrigerator. Back to Africa. Aren't children starving there still? Go feed them. Leave me alone. I am done. Dinner, you are relieved of duty. I leave the table. I fish my mouth open and run, my gills wake a galaxy of pollen and yeast. The air is filled of food. There are miles of oxygen and hydrogen and nitrogen and, from what I understand, that's most of what I am anyway. Why have I been bothering with all this unnecessary complexity? Why have I wasted so much time making something for it to become nothing? I am going to eat another way. I will eat at the master's table. I will eat the master's master. I will eat the beginning.