Sometimes when I eat a biscuit with my tea I worry whether or not it wants to be eaten. Part of me thinks that it is happy to be eaten because that is it’s job, and everything in life wants to fulfil it’s purpose, but another part of me thinks that the biscuit wants to be alive, in the packet, with his friends. Maybe he has a sweetheart biscuit. I will have to eat her too.
This upsets me a great deal, and I have to dunk the biscuit entirely in the tea, until the small bubbles stop. Then I can eat it, because this seems like a last kindness.