Behind me now, Cordelia is mewing long and plaintively, and I know she’s asking for another fresh egg like was dropped between the pews but previously, which I’ve been trying not to hear her lick up bit by bit while I write this, her tongue a metronome of meat, steady in its hunger, implacable in its need. There are no fresh eggs anymore, dearest Cordelia. I most humbly apologize. All we have left here is rot and decay.
