Beyond the sunset, Night Three is less than 2 1/2 hours away.

I am in everything that I expect I would feel 45 hours into a fast. Like last time, I am weakened and feel the heavy hand of food temptation. I stand within the tension of increased creativity and insolvent energy reserves for the imagination's expressive execution. Like a mage maintaining a mana shield, it takes my entire essence to resist the hunger I feel.

Oh, it's NEVER about broccoli and spinach. NEVER! It's not the things that extend our being! No, it is for the corporate discombobulation of the natural order, that is, a Walter White culinary lab engineer who invokes a meth head response so as to meet shareholders' expectations through the dance of subtle interposition and interplay among fats, sugars, and salts. "Oh you cheeky, Squirrel...you want it? You want it? Aha! Eat them—EAT THEM!"

Oh, for all the tactics and theory in these past days, I am reduced to Green Eggs and Ham:

I could not, would not, on a boat.
I will not, will not, with a goat.
I will not eat them in the rain.
I will not eat them on a train.
Not in the dark! Not in a tree!
Not in a car! You let me be!
I do not like them in a box.
I do not like them with a fox.
I will not eat them in a house.
I do not like them with a mouse.
I do not like them here or there.
I do not like them anywhere!

I am Chuck Noland crashing through the surging rage around me.

I am Neo plunging to the sewers.

I enter the belly of the whale.