Hunger of the Seraphim

The Ortolan is a French songbird. It must be captured at the perfect time, blinded, forcefully fattened, and drowned in brandy. Those who choose to indulge must do so wholly. Bones, feet, head. All but the beak. The diner must veil their head. Some say it is to savor the aroma. Tradition says it is to hide from the piercing eyes of the savior.

The birds are dead. They do not feel the cracking structures between the teeth of their masters, hollow bones pricking gums and scraping teeth. I will not be as fortunate once I am plucked from this gilded room. I will feel the cracking of my bones. The piercing of my flesh. Ground between molar and canine, my fear-soaked fat will burst through my skin, bringing forth a sinful ecstasy that cycles for eternity. They feast as we feast, maddening further with each bite, insatiable greed for forbidden delicacies.

Saturn devouring his son. Jupiter has better luck than I.

Do they dare shield their eyes from God? Perfect faces free from shame, crafted by the astuteness of divinity. They act in His command. They act outside of it as it suits them.

Truth. Speculation. Pessimism? Prophecy.

They are older, more powerful.

Purgatorio. The fated shall always be.