The table is long. It stretches into a darkness that has no name. You sit at the far end. The chair is cold wood. It bites into your thighs. You do not move. You are here. You are always here.

The room is not a room. It is a space made of memory and dust. The walls breathe. They are made of old paper. Yellowed. Stained with wine and blood. You see the stains clearly. They are not wine. They are not blood. They are tears. They have dried into the fiber of the world.

The feast is laid out. It is a grotesque thing. Piles of meat. Ribs. Heads of cattle. The meat is grey. It looks wet. It looks alive. You look at your plate. There is bread. There is cheese. There is a knife. The knife is heavy. It is made of iron. It is old. The iron is black.

You pick up the bread. You break it. The crumbs fall. They do not hit the table. They float. They hang in the air. They stay there. They are suspended. Time is thick here. Time is like honey. It drags. It pulls.

You eat. You chew. The taste is ash. The taste is salt. The taste is nothing. You swallow. It goes down. It burns. It burns like fire. It burns like ice. You are hungry. You are always hungry.

A woman stands by the door. She is tall. She is thin. Her face is pale. Her eyes are dark. She wears a dress of blue silk. The silk is torn. It hangs in tatters. She looks at you. She does not smile. She does not frown. She looks at you with a pity that is deep. It is an ocean. It is a hole.

"Margaret," she says.

You do not answer. You cannot answer. Your mouth is full of ash. You choke. You cough. The crumbs burst from your lips. They fly like birds. They vanish.

She steps forward. Her feet make no sound. The floor is soft. It is made of moss. The moss is green. It is alive. It grows around her ankles. It climbs her legs. It is a vine. It is a root.

"You have returned," she says. Her voice is low. It is a whisper. It is a scream. It is both. "You have returned to the feast."

"I did not come," you say. Your voice is your own. It is rough. It is dry. It is yours. "I am gone. I am far away."

"Far away," she repeats. She tastes the words. She spits them out. "There is no far away. There is only here. There is only now. There is only the plate."

She points to the plate. You look down. The bread is gone. The cheese is gone. The knife is gone. The plate is empty. The plate is cracked. A single crack runs through the center. It is thin. It is sharp. It is a wound.

You reach for the plate. Your hand shakes. Your fingers are long. Your nails are black. You touch the crack. It cuts your skin. A drop of blood wells up. It is red. It is bright. It is the only color in the room.

The blood falls. It hits the crack. The crack widens. The plate shatters. It breaks into pieces. The pieces fly. They turn into glass. They turn into shards. They cut the air. They cut the silence.

The woman gasps. She steps back. The moss recoils from her. It dies. It turns brown. It crumbles.

"No," she says. "No. You broke it. You always break it."

"I did not mean to," you say. Your voice is small. It is a child's voice. "I did not mean to. I was only hungry. I was only tired. I was only old."

"Old," she says. She laughs. It is a harsh sound. It is a crow cawing. "Age is the only enemy. Time is the only thief. You cannot fight it. You cannot kill it. You can only feed it."

She looks at the broken plate. She looks at you. Her eyes are full of tears. The tears fall. They hit the floor. They do not soak in. They bounce. They are like stones.

"You are the immigrant," she says. "You are the stranger. You have crossed the border. You have left your home. You have left your name. You have left your life. And yet. You are here. You are still here. You are always here."

"I want to leave," you say. "I want to go back. I want to be young. I want to be whole."

"You cannot be whole," she says. "Nothing is whole. The glass is broken. The bread is ash. The meat is dead. Only the hunger remains. Only the need remains. And the need is infinite. The need is a circle. You run around it. You run forever. You never escape."

You stand up. Your legs are weak. They tremble. They give way. You fall. You hit the floor. The moss is gone. The floor is hard. It is stone. It is cold. It is the cold of the grave.

You look at the woman. She is still standing. She is still tall. She is still thin. But she is changing. She is fading. The blue silk is turning white. Her face is turning clear. She is becoming transparent. She is becoming memory.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am the truth," she says. "I am the mirror. I am the part of you that you refuse to see. I am the age. I am the end. I am the thing that waits for you at the table."

She reaches out to you. Her hand is transparent. You see the floor through her fingers. She touches your face. Her touch is cold. It is like snow. It is like death.

"Let go," she says. "Let go of the hunger. Let go of the need. Let go of the self. It is a trap. It is a cage. It is a dream. Wake up."

"I cannot," you say. "I am afraid. I am afraid of the dark. I am afraid of the silence. I am afraid of the end."

"There is no end," she says. "There is only the beginning. Again. And again. And again. The wheel turns. The plate breaks. The hunger returns. The feast is set. You sit. You eat. You break. You fall. You return. It is the law. It is the cycle. It is the nightmare."

She is gone. She is dust. She is smoke. She is nothing. The room is empty. The table is empty. The pieces of glass lie on the floor. They catch the light. There is no light. The darkness is total. The darkness is complete.

You look at your hands. They are empty. They are shaking. They are yours. You are alone. You are always alone.

You try to stand. Your body does not obey. Your muscles are weak. Your bones are brittle. You are old. You are so old. You have been old for a thousand years. You have been old for a million years.

You look at the broken plate. You see your reflection in the shards. Your face is distorted. Your face is wrong. Your eyes are wide. Your mouth is open. You are screaming. But you make no sound.

You pick up a shard. It is sharp. It is cold. You hold it in your hand. You feel the cut. You feel the pain. The pain is real. The pain is yours.

You cut your palm. The blood flows. It drips. It hits the floor. It spreads. It forms a pool. The pool is red. The pool is bright. It is a lake. It is a sea.

You drink the blood. It tastes like iron. It tastes like life. It tastes like memory. You remember. You remember the house. You remember the garden. You remember the dog. You remember the rain. You remember the laughter. You remember the love.

The love is gone. The love is ash. The love is dust.

You are an immigrant. You are a ghost. You are a dream. You are a nightmare.

The table is long. It stretches into a darkness that has no name. You sit at the far end. The chair is cold wood. It bites into your thighs. You do not move. You are here. You are always here.

The room is not a room. It is a space made of memory and dust. The walls breathe. They are made of old paper. Yellowed. Stained with wine and blood. You see the stains clearly. They are not wine. They are not blood. They are tears. They have dried into the fiber of the world.

The feast is laid out. It is a grotesque thing. Piles of meat. Ribs. Heads of cattle. The meat is grey. It looks wet. It looks alive. You look at your plate. There is bread. There is cheese. There is a knife. The knife is heavy. It is made of iron. It is old. The iron is black.

You pick up the bread. You break it. The crumbs fall. They do not hit the table. They float. They hang in the air. They stay there. They are suspended. Time is thick here. Time is like honey. It drags. It pulls.

You eat. You chew. The taste is ash. The taste is salt. The taste is nothing. You swallow. It goes down. It burns. It burns like fire. It burns like ice. You are hungry. You are always hungry.

A woman stands by the door. She is tall. She is thin. Her face is pale. Her eyes are dark. She wears a dress of blue silk. The silk is torn. It hangs in tatters. She looks at you. She does not smile. She does not frown. She looks at you with a pity that is deep. It is an ocean. It is a hole.

"Margaret," she says.

You do not answer. You cannot answer. Your mouth is full of ash. You choke. You cough. The crumbs burst from your lips. They fly like birds. They vanish.

She steps forward. Her feet make no sound. The floor is soft. It is made of moss. The moss is green. It is alive. It grows around her ankles. It climbs her legs. It is a vine. It is a root.

"You have returned," she says. Her voice is low. It is a whisper. It is a scream. It is both. "You have returned to the feast."

"I did not come," you say. Your voice is your own. It is rough. It is dry. It is yours. "I am gone. I am far away."

"Far away," she repeats. She tastes the words. She spits them out. "There is no far away. There is only here. There is only now. There is only the plate."

She points to the plate. You look down. The bread is gone. The cheese is gone. The knife is gone. The plate is empty. The plate is cracked. A single crack runs through the center. It is thin. It is sharp. It is a wound.

You reach for the plate. Your hand shakes. Your fingers are long. Your nails are black. You touch the crack. It cuts your skin. A drop of blood wells up. It is red. It is bright. It is the only color in the room.

The blood falls. It hits the crack. The crack widens. The plate shatters. It breaks into pieces. The pieces fly. They turn into glass. They turn into shards. They cut the air. They cut the silence.

The woman gasps. She steps back. The moss recoils from her. It dies. It turns brown. It crumbles.

"No," she says. "No. You broke it. You always break it."

"I did not mean to," you say. Your voice is small. It is a child's voice. "I did not mean to. I was only hungry. I was only tired. I was only old."

"Old," she says. She laughs. It is a harsh sound. It is a crow cawing. "Age is the only enemy. Time is the only thief. You cannot fight it. You cannot kill it. You can only feed it."

She looks at the broken plate. She looks at you. Her eyes are full of tears. The tears fall. They hit the floor. They do not soak in. They bounce. They are like stones.

"You are the immigrant," she says. "You are the stranger. You have crossed the border. You have left your home. You have left your name. You have left your life. And yet. You are here. You are still here. You are always here."

"I want to leave," you say. "I want to go back. I want to be young. I want to be whole."

"You cannot be whole," she says. "Nothing is whole. The glass is broken. The bread is ash. The meat is dead. Only the hunger remains. Only the need remains. And the need is infinite. The need is a circle. You run around it. You run forever. You never escape."

You stand up. Your legs are weak. They tremble. They give way. You fall. You hit the floor. The moss is gone. The floor is hard. It is stone. It is cold. It is the cold of the grave.

You look at the woman. She is still standing. She is still tall. She is still thin. But she is changing. She is fading. The blue silk is turning white. Her face is turning clear. She is becoming transparent. She is becoming memory.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am the truth," she says. "I am the mirror. I am the part of you that you refuse to see. I am the age. I am the end. I am the thing that waits for you at the table."

She reaches out to you. Her hand is transparent. You see the floor through her fingers. She touches your face. Her touch is cold. It is like snow. It is like death.

"Let go," she says. "Let go of the hunger. Let go of the need. Let go of the self. It is a trap. It is a cage. It is a dream. Wake up."

"I cannot," you say. "I am afraid. I am afraid of the dark. I am afraid of the silence. I am afraid of the end."

"There is no end," she says. "There is only the beginning. Again. And again. And again. The wheel turns. The plate breaks. The hunger returns. The feast is set. You sit. You eat. You break. You fall. You return. It is the law. It is the cycle. It is the nightmare."

She is gone. She is dust. She is smoke. She is nothing. The room is empty. The table is empty. The pieces of glass lie on the floor. They catch the light. There is no light. The darkness is total. The darkness is complete.

You look at your hands. They are empty. They are shaking. They are yours. You are alone. You are always alone.

You try to stand. Your body does not obey. Your muscles are weak. Your bones are brittle. You are old. You are so old. You have been old for a thousand years. You have been old for a million years.

You look at the broken plate. You see your reflection in the shards. Your face is distorted. Your face is wrong. Your eyes are wide. Your mouth is open. You are screaming. But you make no sound.

You pick up a shard. It is sharp. It is cold. You hold it in your hand. You feel the cut. You feel the pain. The pain is real. The pain is yours.

You cut your palm. The blood flows. It drips. It hits the floor. It spreads. It forms a pool. The pool is red. The pool is bright. It is a lake. It is a sea.

You drink the blood. It tastes like iron. It tastes like life. It tastes like memory. You remember. You remember the house. You remember the garden. You remember the dog. You remember the rain. You remember the laughter. You remember the love.

The love is gone. The love is ash. The love is dust.

You are an immigrant. You are a ghost. You are a dream. You are a nightmare.

The table is long. It stretches into a darkness that has no name. You sit at the far end. The chair is cold wood. It bites into your thighs. You do not move. You are here. You are always here.