Review: The Empty Promise of Foie Gras

To deepen my understanding of emptiness, I took upon myself the reviewing of this promise.

To say it is being held like a carrot in front of me is to overestimate my enthusiasm for carrots and to insult me in the loins.

I know I'm being manipulated. It is inherent to promises that this must be so. Foie gras... I cannot say. I can't believe it, but even if I could, it wouldn't matter. I would still be speechless.

Smugly, in the corner of my eye, drifting between the shadows as so often these familiar hallucinations daily do, that elusive spectre of gratification beckons me on. What otherwise might have been meaningless and empty flirtations with the confabulatory frame of mind are now focused and clarified, distilled into a concentrated obsession. It is a paranoia brought about by a promise whose emptiness I cannot comprehend but for the fullness of even the slightest drop of its truth.

Was that foie gras scuttling across my desk just now? What about that fatty lump, lurking just outside my window? I hear a sucking sound. Oh foie! Don't be so coy! I feel that I am like the irrelevant leaf of paper that is tossed about on the breezes of the soft, gentle banter between a schoolgirl and her imaginary white elephants.

It is offal.