The first supper

Pleasure. That place that goes beyond the honey-dripping nature of flattering words. They are never as true or as sweet as a wet kiss. A kiss that keeps the heart pumping and the mind's hands away from any object. That place is hard to find. It is thought, conceived through words - just like He was, but just like He was, it is incarnated. It is not holy until it is earthly: pleasure in the spicy hot steam penetrating the nostrils scabbed from ruminating breathing; the finest pleasure in closing one's eyes and seeing nothing but the tridimensional spectacle about to be presented; pleasure in opening one's mouth and biting, and salivating, and feeling... hot, fresh, lemony but not quite zesty, just a bit herby, not tangy at all, crunchy like cabbage; hot, creamy, a bit cheesy, despite the lack of protein; fresh, sweet, texturised, not quite tangy, despite the pomegranate. Close your eyes and feel. The touch in your palate is the only place to dwell on. Do not say a word, food has taken its place. Breathe, this is the one and only moment, the one and only moment you have always dreamed of, and it is wonderful. Close your eyes, breathe, taste, and look at the sky...