The Triscuit . . .
An Indian handmade woven basket. I examine it more carefully. Now noticing the fine, intertwined twigs composing its square, sprinkled lightly with green and white sequins, making the connection . . . to a Christmas wreath.
Slowly I bite down. Crunching sounds. The Triscuit on my tongue begins to dissolve . . .
I am plunged immediately into euphoria. Flying firecrackers, in colors rosemary, light, weightless green, and tainted white inundate me. A light touch of olive oil gently drips onto the scene like some kind of heavenly water without molecules, putting out the fireworks. Dead. Then that enigmatic, frightening thing starts to grow inside me. It is growing. An enormous blob of dark, smudged blackness descends upon me. I can’t stop it. The urge has overtaken me. My hand reaches into the box for more.