Stranded on the sofa like a whale fed up with plankton, he knew he couldn’t eat any more. Yet he felt the things he had eaten were not enough to fill him – a renowned publisher, the limelight of the literary world, casual sex with beautiful women, luxurious vista over Central Park –: he needed more, and he couldn’t eat more.
And then, his hands started grabbing things against his will. He reached for the remote control and swallowed it. Gulp, it went its way. And then the pillow. And the carpet. And another copy of his novel left on the floor. He stretched and seized hold of the table itself: in slow, gargantuan movements he brought it closer, engulfed it and started absorbing it. The thing he had become was now horribly bloating: past the edge of satiety, it was now hunger feeding itself, exponentially, without remorse. A machine for digesting the world.
Picture from Wikimedia. Thanks to 