I've got a healthy heart in a fatty city of dying men. I live among rotund wastrels; the round waisted with deadliness in cheeseburger-eyes. Bacon tongues, slithering along juicy lips. Ham fists with curled up fingers as thick as sausages, hopelessness dipped in the brine of shortened days. Sometimes they kill. Lettuce lovers. Organic pamphleteers in hemp designs foisted against their fork and knife ways. I've got a healthy heart in a fatty city of dying men. But sometimes I crave the fat of the land, the wanton indulgence of gourmand men in wastrel waists of sausages and curled up dreams.