The good meeting had no start and finish. It simply was. Or at least for several thousand years in both directions of time. Participants, some willing some not, discussed matters of diminishing importance until exhaustion, thoroughly indulging dead ends, routinely replacing drool tins, and flogging themselves until ecstasy. Though some fantasized about someday leaving, they knew they wouldn’t, physically or mentally incapable—or perhaps merely settling.

I catered the meeting sometimes. Sometimes not.

A flavorless accumulation of indiscernible memories poured freely from a wound that refused to heal and I cherished its negligible contribution to the decaying table, already bloated with inconsequence and sometimes laughed at the scab and its pathetic desire to mend such a relentless hole.

I hoped the offering would moisten the lips of self-proclaimed gods who would eventually die without notice in their favorite easy chairs. Though as far as I knew, the ceremony existed for no one in particular, simply fueling a flaccid and eternal exchange of fluid.

Sometimes they ate. Most times, they sat motionless, seemingly watching the life-giving spool of flesh impregnate the wrinkles in the wood.

I hoped the blood stains on the table would remain when the meeting concluded. But I knew the meeting wouldn’t end, and I could already see the mahogany consuming what was left of my legacy.