“I was a science fiction writer…” is the echo through the space that the person exists in, if that’s what we are — people? People, I think. “Imagine what you think you might be looking at,” she (or he or they continues). “It feels like a story someone’s telling you to entertain you, and then it turns out to be true. You don’t know how deep the truth of it goes — it seems dangerous to assume — and at the same time, you can’t help but assume. Knowing that you are making assumptions that steer you zig-zag and awry — that’s how you must navigate. Upside-down, inside out, sidewise.”
There are spectacles, long on a nose, and a longer gaze across them. “Writing science fiction,” the voice repeats. “But specifically, food. I seemed to notice, more and more, and in this decidedly science fiction world… I needed to write about food.
“Not food only, and not food in the usual way, but digestion and the nature of food.
“Who is our food, and who are we food for?”
The voice has paused, now.
You’re not sure what to do, but you realize there is something going on. If you wait it out, perhaps it will reveal itself?
That’s our suggestion.
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