Hunger.
Moreover, proper appetite.
Crisp, cut wedges of russet potatoes- lightly sprinkled finely with rosemary and a dash of dried Daendroq pepper powder. Mildly charcoal on its edges, yet sizzling golden-brown along every other surface. A superb crunch on it outermost layer whilst retaining soft mash within.
Prime cuts of steak. Grilled over butter- under salted, chopped shallots. Diced garlic to dress alongside thyme and two bay leaves. Set aside with peas or carrots. Rare, medium-rare, or even well done. Whichever variant to fit one's own palette.
Wine, glorious wine. The lick of a grape can wring out both high and low from man. An acquired taste, no doubt. A habit which reels in delight and debauchery unlike any other.
Indeed, the sentiment of flavour is what coerces a man to mull over one's own humanity. It churns. It bites. It gnaws away at every fibre of your being, beckoning you with its siren call. Empty promises and fallacious goals are the only two topics it discusses. It speaks to one in hushed hums. It tells you only of 'perhaps'. Perhaps if you redirect the course you set prior, it would be worth it.
All the years one's life for the exact same single of one's favourite dish.
Sentiment. Sentiments from the past are dangerous. They act little more than as bookmarks for certain chapters in personal history. Nevertheless, ignorance of particular emotions remains purely that- ignorance. One should acknowledge these sentiments and promptly reject them. Immortality has rendered those flavours futile.
Still, one may fall prone to experimenting with certain flavours. Puppets; for example; possess a taste which can only be described as utter trash in a most figurative manner. Yet, yours truly came to drain the blood and drink it. Almost akin to a rabid dog feasting upon the remnants of a desecrated, decaying, utterly-boring corpse.
If I am nothing more than a rabid dog, one could purport that he was nothing more than dog food.
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