In winter, there is this certain hunger that feels nothing else but cosmic.
It seems like a black hole has birthed between the rib cages. Then, it starts to consume slowly, almost painstakingly, all matter known to science, starting from the very pit of a small body. The hunger strikes at the first sound of a gut, wrenching in emptiness. The emptiness then slowly grows to scalar destinations, like how the milky-way grows: to fringes that know no boundary but just the turning of voids upon voids.
This hunger inquires the capability of the mind itself, in measuring the untold places that a full stomach can’t grasp. It lasts on the minutes that the body can tolerate its isolation from anything that gives it life. During this time, only the most basic of science works; the life-forms in the space that is the stomach now feed on the simplest forms of glucose, the ones that are easiest to break down to create heat. Soon, the emptiness vacates, as near-freezing temperatures occupy. The sound growls even more, though not howling but certainly not a whisper. Then for a moment, the space is trapped within a space. Within a hair of a second, the black hole stops absorbing; the dark matter is burgeoning, and an explosion is poised to be cataclysmic.
A Fart. The Fart, after all, is god.
