The light flags as the wind picks up. Nothing to eat here. Nothing here at all. He picked it for this reason, but they came anyway. Now a herd of stomachs sits in the open.

They’re peculiar instructions, misread and questioned as usual. But nowhere seats thousands. The feast of the remote place, of endless bread and fish, feeds all who eat the word in the wilds.

Food goes a long way in the right hands. Given in the right spirit, it finds its way to everyone. One lesson.

Food multiplies outside of town. Morsels become mountains where the buildings fall away. Another lesson.

Yet, at noontime, heaps of spoiled food and talk of scarcity stink together in the street.

At night, we gorge on sound and pictures until we vomit.

An age in need of bread and fish and grass.

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