I feel like a soft piece of chalk, scraped along the macadam. There’s a nub of me left. I thought maybe a full night of sleep would sweep up my crumbs into a mound and help me reabsorb myself, reform, be who I think I am (so much of me is scattered over the last few weeks…). But that’s not how it works. I don’t lose myself that easily, and the only way to gain myself is in You. And no number of kisses can satisfy a supernatural pica. So steer me from navel-gazing and sensuousness. And feed me Your flesh. Eucharisteo.