So why do I now find in my mouth the distinct aftertaste of Spaghetti-Os? How can that be?
What is the answer? Well, my Reader, the answer is that there is no answer. The answer is that . . . carried on the voices of the wind from ancient days is the sweet, sorrowful, lilting song of She Whom We Forgot. She, whose beauty and grace kept us warm in our hearts and kept us together, and kept us moving across the wind swept tundra when our pitiful tribes might have otherwise collapsed, cowering, to a one, in their heavy ragged animal skins. Feebly praying to the world for its bitter banshee swells of wind to relent, to stop touching them with their cold fingers, chill as imminent death . . .
As it was, the wind carried Her, and Her caress.
But what did we do? We fucked her over, and took instead as our deities vile bastards like Jehovah. And now all we have of sweet, great She is the occasional, mysterious unwarranted taste of Spaghetti-Os on our tongues.