The Food Of Thought

Days reeded in darkness, shady arms climbing up the Walls, as the dusty may sand of ice-cream White gives way to grayscale pebbles, red brick and smooth as a tombstone, Dotted with toothy little jumping beans, hopping and whippeting as their rock Is lifted and the damp, dank pit which they call home Is moved an inch to the left. Creamy swash and gentle bubbles cut through the cold bitter rubble, chased by the tide of a great grey sea, old and brand new and rocking in it's grave, following itself out into the distance.
Whetted weeds and pitchfork blades of spiny grass crag along the dunes like a fringe, patchy and weathered. A sea mist stings what flesh I have left unprotected, and all of a sudden, as down from the heavens comes hell in a hand basket, a familiar scent hits me round the face, climbing the wind like a song that I know, wavering and buffeting like a cloth in water. The oily iron aroma, so warm and gracelessly inviting, a reminder of past days. My eyes follow my nose, which in tern follows my prediction of what they will lay upon. The vision, coming in from the door in the corner of my eye, is true, and as my gloved hands push my rickety and confused frame from the wetter part of the hole I've been digging my hand, a collection of confiscated thoughts fills my synapses. Shapes twisting, accusing, calling my name to tell me that I've had my fill. I need no more. The sweet indulgence Is but a cherry impaled on a porcupine, and once my heart is in it, my teeth will soon follow.
Oh what the hell.
I get up and purchase a huge portion of fish and chips JUST for me.
Yippee