At a vast, decadadent table with a swollen, sprawling feast we sit with friends gorging our way to an elusive point. We get on hands and knees, begin crawling across side by side on its wide expanse, shoveling and consuming on our pathway to a neccesary gluttony. At the end of the ever-expanding table is a small man, spinning and diving and pirouetting his way backwards, waving magic hands. He creates, endlessly and effortlessly, his beguiling banquet, hasty to turn us back into sucklers, crying and hungry.Now we are rolling off edges, halting our crawl to breathe, and friends are chortling out laughs and bits of half-chewed food as we turn belly-up from our bellying up and face the sun and the truth now in our eyes. I’m wondering what will make the man stop dancing or if he will even need to anytime before we’ve all croaked and he uses our fat for his candles.