His mother was a couturierre and she knew to cook special meals for his son and his guest. Vegetables and seeds. The fruits of Atlantis, yeast of Plato’s Greece. Huge sweet cabbages, mille leaves crowded in perfect spheres. A dialog of senses, uncorked perfume bottles filled with "Cognac 4 stars" fog--tall crystal roofless towers--wet prisons for the lethargic princesses. And sushi. Without fish. Rolled meticulously by expert patient fingers. Roulette. Roulette. Dancing sushi, among the silver knives. Chef d’oeuvre for the last vegetarian cannibal. Tasted recollections of the beginning. Grass-sour-sauce of guilt. Guilty for never biting from the forbidden fruit. Guilty just for eating. Swallowing. Frustration of the sublingual papilla.

Once, I was invited to the banquet. Now, I keep my bones in a shoebox. And he didn’t even taste sushi. No more sushi! he said. After tomorrow, I’ll go to the banquet, uninvited. This is not a banquet-banquet, but his birthday party. I have a present for him. In the shoebox, I arranged my bones in a heart shape and I bought 4 yards of red ribbon, a sword and a lavender Sunday soap for the big knot. He likes marvelous well-done things and he doesn’t like to receive presents. He is afraid of horses. And arrows.
Who knows? Perhaps, he’ll like my bones. He has enough flesh and blood. He could put everything together and create an atom. The atom is perfect. Isn't it?