Sustenance.

“Are you ready for some sausage patty?” he asks.

“I don’t know if I can handle sausage,” I say. “I’m still a tad jangled from last night. You?”

“A little bit hung over, but that’s to be expected of a Marine of fly-fishing. I’m famished from forging the smithy of my soul. I wrote a poem this morning! Come, we must find sustenance ..."

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