Eating’s gross, isn’t it? In the abstract, I mean. When you’re used to hyperspace recharging stations, to sunlight and cosmic rays, when most of the beauty you’ve known lies in a great machine’s heart, it’s hard to see the appeal of using bones that poke from spit-coated gums to mash things that grew in dirt into a paste that will fit down the wet tube connecting your mouth to the sac of acid under your heart.
Words can wound, but they’re bridges, too. Like the bridges that are all that Genghis left behind. Though maybe a bridge can also be a wound. To paraphrase a poet: Letters are structures, not events. Yours give me a place to live inside.