We drank our dinner that night. The night that all went awry and the astronaut couldn’t fly. The air was heavy with smoke and our words were thick—the pudding they fed us with a sliver spoon began to boil over the pot and the skin was too thick to cut into the meaning. We knew the key was there to unlock the madness, but none of us could seem to find it, not that we looked all that hard. That night the tortoise beat the hare to the blood-soaked wall where he would be looked at eye-to-eye for the first time—the hare was left below to wallow—a solitary moment. The blessed ones danced their jig of joy waiting for the sinners—but little did they know they had invited them over for dinner, they’d wait until their death. It’s mad what greed and vanity do to the reaper who waits for the grim moment to strike—no sense of what’s important and no need, just sit back and wait till the moment is right. The animals will blend with their expensive furs; the chefs will eat their words. But someone holds the light below the key, shining up on it through all the misery—the thoughtless greed and lands unsought—who knew the answers were right in front. Better seen at the bottom of a bottle and forgotten the next day.